


Keep Making Trouble

by QueenBoo



Category: Nathan Barley (TV), The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, Descriptions of a Panic Attack, Doppelganger shenanigans, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Depression, References to Drugs, References to past addiction, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 138,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24312166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: Things can go down many different routes when you meet a person for the first time. A friendship can form. Maybe you make an arch nemesis. Sometimes you just give that awkward little smile people do when you pass each  other in the street and accidentally make eye contact.Question is, what do you do when the stranger you smile at happens to be your doppelganger?
Relationships: Dan Ashcroft/Jones, Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 166
Kudos: 51





	1. Twins Again

**Author's Note:**

> I really liked The Prince and The Pauper as a kid (esp the barbie version are you kidding me?) and I happen to also really like Vince, and Howard, and Jones, and Dan. So. Crossover fic! Chapters will come as I finish them (ideally once a week but maybe more - it's lock down, I have nothing else to do tbh). This is also the first time I've written anything Barley at all, rip. 
> 
> Just a lil intro chapter to get us going - Let me know what you think, enjoy!

There comes a point in any person's life where they start to fit into certain routines. Patterns form. Behaviours become expected. 

For Vince, it should come as no surprise whatsoever that he finds himself in a nightclub at 11:30 on a Wednesday night. A scandal, to most people. The kind of people that have refined their behaviour to a much more responsible thing. Those with proper jobs (which he  _ supposes _ he has) that require them to clock in at 9am (and again, his aforementioned job  _ definitely  _ does). But to Vince, this is not only a pattern - it’s practically encouraged. He wasn’t the Prince of Camden based on his own word was he? People wanted this from him. They  _ needed _ it. So he delivers.

Though if he’s going to be completely up front about it, the whole night  _ is _ a bit of a surprise for him. Considering his original intention for this evening involved a takeaway, pyjamas by 9 o’clock, and bickering with Howard over whose turn it was to monopolise the television (because if he had to sit through  _ another  _ documentary about the creation of the paperclip he was gonna hurt someone. Probably Howard) this was a big step in the opposite direction. 

That plan had gone solidly out of the window at closing time. The pair of them ambling up into the flat with a low level thrum of  _ something _ ricocheting between them. No words but plenty being said with body language alone. Howard’s pinched features and Vince’s tense shoulders. 

It all came down to a cape. 

“Do you  _ have  _ to leave your clothes lying everywhere,” Howard had complained, shifting the shiny fabric off the back of the sofa and thrusting it into Vince’s hands. “It’s like living in a Topshop storage unit.” 

And to the eye the beholder (that being Vince) there wasn’t really  _ any _ clothes about at all. Well. There were some. But a pair of boots, a few blouses, and a cape, were practically  _ nothing  _ in comparison to some of the messes he’d left lying before. “Do you  _ have  _ to be such a clean freak.” He’d snapped back in annoyance. 

Though he did begin to scoop up the other offending items. Might as well. 

Looking back on it now he should have seen it coming. Both of them had been spoiling for a fight all day, in their own particular ways. Howard squinting over at him in that way he knew wound him up and Vince, well, Vince didn’t do much different besides taking his avoidance of doing any actual work to the highest level possible. That being to prop himself in his chair by the window and not look up  _ once  _ all shift. 

All it took was one comment. It wasn’t even a big one; it was the delivery. Uttered under his breath like the argument wasn’t even worth his effort. A lit match tumbling onto their spectacularly short fuse. They’d spent all day covering themselves in kerosene, ready for the opportunity to set themselves alight.

“Well one of us has to be.” 

Fireworks. 

And not even the _ fun  _ kind. Not the quick witted back and forth they usually engaged in. Like sparklers, that was. Exciting. Fizzing in the pit of his stomach. Speaking to a kind of tension they  _ surely  _ both knew was there but refused to acknowledge. Vince could feel it - arguably he’d been feeling it since he was in his teens but recently there had been a shift. After  _ the party _ this thing vibrating under his skin had begun to feel explosive. Now there was a spark present on  _ both  _ sides of the equation. Spitting excessive heat into every interaction. A wonderful whizz-bang of (what Vince liked to think was) sexual tension. 

But the world tilted again following Denmark. Howard came back the same but slightly different. 

This is what he’d brought back with him. This type of firework. The kind that was loud and dangerous; ones that, if you set them off wrong then there was a good chance they would kill you. Probably not even legal. Bought on discount. Who buys discount fireworks? 

That’s what their fights felt like lately. Discount fireworks. Vince had gone on to express in many (mostly expletive) words that Howard was a dull old lunatic. Howard returned the sentiment in almost as many (clever sounding) words that Vince was vain and self involved. 

Vince had grabbed his wallet, the offending cape, and had stormed from the flat and into the rapidly setting sun. 

He was the kind of person that didn’t really need a plan when staging dramatic exits from his own flat. He had runaways across the city he could hole up in until a reasonable amount of time had passed (or he got bored enough to go home, whichever came first). But none of his usual haunts felt like where he wanted to be. Not when so many  _ familiar _ unfamiliar faces would be waiting there to bask in his attention. He wanted somewhere fresh, where he could disappear into a crowd as much as possible and drown himself in music.

Leroy had been telling him about a place for weeks now, they had some in house DJ that was supposedly a  _ genius _ \- he’d been putting off going for reasons he can’t remember at this moment in time. Was he ever going to find a better time than this to try it out? Unlikely. Vince knows his own patterns well and he knows that the best way to take his mind off Howard was to get a bit drunk, dance away his frustration and stumble home in the wee hours of the morning to pass out in his bed. 

So he goes. 

There isn’t a problem getting in. Skips the queue because he has a friend whose girlfriend’s brother is friends with the bouncer (who says being the Prince of Camden was a pointless venture) and pressing his way into the place gives him a good sense of why people are talking about it all the time.

The music  _ is _ pretty genius. The beat is thumping in his chest. Rattling his bones. Pushing everything out of his head and filling him up with it’s looping chords; there’s no room for anything anymore. Nothing except tunes. It’s how he likes it. 

It’s what he needs. 

Barely any time later he’s made himself at home on the dance floor; lost count of how many drinks he has had, but knows he hasn’t paid for a single one of them. Warm bodies come and go from his personal space on rotation, fleeting in their attention. There’s a girl in his arms at the minute; backing herself into him as she sways. It’s surely a sign that should he wish to avoid going back to his own home tonight he would be more than welcome to hers. 

Sadly that  _ definitely _ isn’t on the agenda for this evening. Being mad at Howard was one thing, but he wasn’t about to force him to stay up all night fretting. Not when he knows how much he worries. Disengaging takes nothing more than a press of fingers at her hips and the dip of his head to murmur his intention of returning. 

Little white lies to save her feelings, and all. 

Quick trip to the bathroom and then his sense of guilt informs him it is likely time to head home. As it is he can practically hear Howard whining at him for staying out so late when they have work in the morning. Mostly a front; the whines cover the breathy relief that Vince has in fact made it home safely. 

After he’s finished his business and is busy washing his hands; he catches his own gaze in the grimy mirror. Observes his reflection closely; tilts his head this way and that. 

A result of having not planned on being out, he’s nowhere near as done up as he  _ prefers _ to be. Only in some grey jeans and a flowing blouse; cape on top adding a splash of colour. His hair isn’t done past his basic backcomb structure - his makeup was only whatever he slapped on for a day at work. 

He wonders when he started looking so  _ tired.  _

Someone pushes into the bathroom behind him; snaps him into action once more. It’s the work of a moment to pull the pieces of himself back together again. Flicks the water off his hands and drags fingers through his fringe so that it sits a little better and then turns to slide past the stranger politely. Except when he looks up, intent on delivering that tight awkward smile that people do when passing strangers in close quarters, he locks eyes with the man. And the man looks back. And they both get trapped staring. 

Vince is intimately familiar with his own reflection. He knows himself when he sees it. 

Just as he stutters a “Wot..?” 

The other man curses. “Holy fuck.” 

And then he’s gone. Turns tail and practically sprints out of the bathroom faster than a Genie out of a bottle (which coincidentally he’s seen happen before, and is a pretty fast process). 

Vince finds himself hovering in the empty bathroom, unsure. So used to having Howard (or at least the suggestion of his involvement) close by when weird things happen that he isn’t immediately certain what to do. Tonight he isn’t here. Tonight they’d fought and he wasn’t sure he would believe what Vince has just seen.

_ Two Vinces. _

One thing is for sure though, he'd never once turned his back on an adventure in his life and he wasn’t about to start now. 

A split second later he’s on the trail of the mirror man. 

***

Jones is having a bit of a shocker. 

For starters he wasn’t even supposed to be at the club tonight, being that it was his night off. But another DJ had some sort of family emergency thing and left a set to be covered. Chris had practically begged for him over the phone. 

He’s really not in the habit of turning down an opportunity to play - Jones fought hard enough to be able to do this for a living, he made damn sure he took advantage of every opportunity that arose. _ Even if _ that happened to be the one night he felt a caffeine crash coming on (he was about ready to build a nest and sleep for three days when the call came). That and Chris had always been good to him; kept him in a regular slot and paid him good money to boot. 

Of course he’d said yes. 

Plus. There was the fact Dan was secluded at home - settled on the sofa with a bottle of Vodka, two packs of cigarettes, and a phone that  _ would not stop ringing _ . A phone he refused to answer even though it would _ not. Stop. Ringing _ . 

“It’s Barley.” He’d said, like that somehow explained everything. 

“Then turn it off, Dan, the sound is doin’ my 'ead in.” 

“Then he wins.” 

How putting your phone on silent to ignore a call is any different than ignoring it on loud, he’ll never know.

Actually. He does know. He knows that the only distinction between a loud phone and a silent one is how well Dan can punish himself with it. The man was a glutton for punishment - especially the obscure kind. Every shrill cry his mobile made was another twisted reminder of the shit he was currently neck deep in. He probably enjoys it just as much as he enjoys drinking the pain away. 

It was the only thing Dan knew  _ how _ to enjoy anymore, really. 

That being said it was still setting Jones’ teeth on edge. When you live with a man like Ashcroft you get used to the nihilistic tendencies - but this recent spate of low was swinging dangerously close to rock bottom. Jones was an optimist at heart and would always do his best to help, but these days getting a smile from his best friend was like getting blood from a rock. 

No matter how much he’d happily put himself in Dan's verbal firing line if it meant he could feel marginally better (even if just for just a moment) he was reaching the end of his tether. Which likely sounded incredibly selfish of him, but he was terrified of being pulled into the abyss with him and not being able to climb out again. Jones wasn't unscathed by the world. He'd been in dark places too; the fact of the matter was he didn't want to go back. 

So yeah, he’d easily agreed to cover because it meant a good enough reason not to be around for Dan’s pity party.

On the upside, he knew his housemate terrifyingly well. He could be certain that by the time he had finished his set, had a dance or two, and then ventured the few streets back to his home - Dan would be passed out on the sofa. Out cold and unwakeable until at least noon tomorrow. 

Meeting his own clone in the bathroom, though, that flips reality on its head a bit. 

Instinct kicked in and told him to run. As he assumes a great many people would when encountering a situation like that. Sure, there was likely a small handful of the population that would bask in the adventure of meeting… well,  _ themselves. _ But Jones was not one of those people. Nope. Weird things happened to Dan, he lived and breathed weird, he attracted it - look at his track record. Jones (other than his practically supernatural ability to maintain a sunshine attitude) was completely run of the mill. 

How do things like this even happen? 

Dan wrote an article years ago, back when he’d been allowed to write whatever he felt like. Could express himself in his prose and opinions (aka before Jonatton was made editor and ran the whole publication into the ground - along with Dan’s sanity). It was all about doppelgangers. 

Jones thought it was complete bullshit, honestly, and he was pretty open minded to most things. He was superstitious. Believed in ghosts. Thought dreams were like peeking into alternate realities. Jones existed in a state of childlike belief - more so than Dan, who even in his youth had been a bit of a grumpy shit. But doppelgangers? Not as easily believed. He found it a stretch that with billions of people on the planet, it was possible for two individuals to be completely identical without being related. 

Dan argued the opposite, that surely even with billions of people there were only so many combinations of genetics that existed and thus absolutely a chance for people to be physically identical - it was just the chance of them _ meeting _ each other that was slim. 

How he’d probably laugh now to learn that when Jones had finished his set and told the club manager Chris he was just popping to the loo - he had run almost face first into his. 

And if the look hadn’t freaked him out enough then the voice certainly did. The accent. London. That man was from London. He had potentially been existing in this city looking  _ exactly  _ like him for years - his whole life. Somehow that thought was scarier than anything else about the situation. 

Music was still thumping around him as he weaved his way through the mass of bodies back to where he’d left his gear. If he was lucky he’d be able to grab it all and go, he could arrange payment with Chris over text for another day. 

He only gets halfway there when he feels a hand grabbing at his arm and his natural fighting instinct kicks in. Despite looking a bit scrawny he was definitely a fighter. He could hold his own; he turns and shoves at the body he finds - discovers the familiar stranger from the bathroom. 

He stumbles back grinning nervously at him. “Steady on!”

Jones’ adrenaline hasn’t abated enough to stop him from curling his fingers into fists; the stranger seems to click onto this fact quickly and his hands shoot up, demonstrating his harmlessness as best he can. He takes another step back for good measure but is restricted from taking anymore by the still gyrating wall of dancers that surround them. 

They stand like that, sizing one another up, for what feels like ten minutes. Jones breathes deeply; deep enough to make his head stop screeching alarm bells. Eventually, he forces his metaphorical hackles down and calms himself. 

The longer he looks the more he starts to realise that - although weird - this man doesn’t look to be a threat to him. 

The other tilts his head towards the glowing neon sign that indicates the smoking area. Says what he thinks is, “Can we talk?” but the sound around him is so loud that he struggles to hear him properly. 

There are many things Jones would rather do than have a conversation with this person. And some of them are distinctly unpleasant. He can understand why  _ he _ might want to - morbid curiosity and all that - but this sort of thing just  _ doesn’t _ happen to him. He hasn’t got the right mental toolbox to process any of it. He’d be more than happy going his whole life without learning what his face gets up to when it’s on somebody else. 

But he’s gasping for a cigarette (or five) so he nods carefully. Gesturing for the stranger to go ahead of him, he resigns himself to the uncomfortable chat for the sake of a nicotine fix. The man beams like a kid at Christmas and leads the way, Jones can’t help but watch his frighteningly feminine hips sway as they walk towards the outside. 

As soon as they get there he makes quick work of fishing out a smoke and lighting it, practiced fingers finding the action soothing. It’s only as an afterthought (and age old memories of his grandmother telling him to _ be polite _ ) that has him offering one to his reflection. 

Thankfully he declines. 

_ Not completely identical, then.  _ He thinks, a misplaced sense of smugness overcoming him that he has managed to be in some way unique from this copy. 

They’re here. He, perhaps wrongly, followed him at his request. And yet they stand in silence. The feeling that they’re evaluating one another returns. Blue eyes on either side making quick trips from head to toe. The other man is chewing on his cuticles anxiously and it makes Jones’ own chewed fingers twitch in sympathy of the shared habit - but neither of them speak a word. 

His hair is longer than Jones’ own, he notices. While he has his chopped and feathered just below his jawline, this man’s hangs to his shoulders. Not only that but the colour differs; jet black where Jones chooses to inject highlights of colour (right now red, but he’d been known to have an imaginative range depending on what took his fancy). 

In fact, now that he cares to look, there was plenty about them that wasn’t identical at all. 

This stranger had sharper angles to his face, defined cheekbones, while Jones would admit he was a tad softer with what some people (Claire -  _ once _ ) would call puppy fat. He was perhaps a fraction paler. The way he dressed was stylish but down a road of fashion Jones didn’t care to follow. His whole body seemed to be a lot more wiry than his own frame, and he seemed to purposefully dress to highlight it; pointed collar bones on show and sharp hip bones poking out from under his blouse when he reached his arm up to brush through his hair. 

On initial estimation he looked taller but a closer inspection revealed this was down to the heeled boots he was wearing, Jones’ beaten converse could not compare height wise. 

There may have been a lot that was frighteningly similar about them - but there was also plenty that was  _ different.  _

A fact that comforted him a lot. 

“What’s your name?” The stranger asks as Jones lights his second cigarette. 

He takes a second to answer that, weighing up the threat level again. He can’t help it really, trust has never come easily to him even in normal situations. His abject suspicion of strangers tripling when the stranger also happens to be some sort of natural phenomenon. 

“Jones.” He answers eventually. 

“Jus’ Jones?” 

Narrowing his eyes, he slowly exhales a stream of smoke. “Yeah. Jus’ Jones.” He frankly isn’t interested in getting anymore acquainted than that if he can help it. 

“I’m Vince,” He introduces. “Vince Noir.” 

Nodding his head is all he can do in response to that. Honestly, he can’t think of a  _ single thing _ to say. Vince resumes chewing on his thumbnail, Jones wonders if he is looking at him and trying to spot the differences too. 

His big blue eyes look a bit terrified and it's only then that Jones climbs out of his own little world long enough to realise this probably isn’t weird for him alone. How often does this stuff happen to people? 

“So…” He clears his throat, tries again. “Long lost twins then?” 

It’s an attempt to lighten the mood with a bit of humour - somehow, though, it manages to have the opposite of the desired effect on Vince. For whatever reason appears more distraught at the idea they could be related (despite that explanation being the one that would comfort Jones the most). 

“You um, you look my age.” Jones reasons, floundering.

Vince looks over each shoulder before stage whispering, “I’m 29.” and he looked  _ pained  _ to have admitted it. “Roughly.” He adds after a second of doing what looks like mental maths. 

So consumed in his own relief/distress/confusion that they’re apparently  _ not  _ twins, he forgets to ask why a person wouldn’t know their own age enough to give anything but an estimation. “Well, we’re not twins. I’m only 27.” 

Wide cobalt eyes shrink back to a normal size, Vince’s grin returns. “Where you from?” 

He seems to be loosening up a bit the more they talk. Jones isn’t sure if this is a good or a bad thing. No longer chewing on his nails, Vince lets his shoulders drop too. Originally, he had wanted no part at all in this conversation, but as they go on, he finds himself just as interested in Vince’s answers as Vince is in his own. And it isn’t the worst thing in the world to indulge him and watch that shy smile grow in confidence. 

“London.” He stubs his cigarette out against the wall. “You too?” 

“Sort of.” It’s another incredibly vague answer and he once again doesn’t get the chance to question it because Vince is talking again. “This is genius, it's like my reflection escaped and went off to have it’s own life.” 

Jones finds that sentence so absurd he has to laugh at him. “A bit, yeah.” He agrees. “Got more creative with the hair though.” 

Thankfully the joke lands this time, and Vince shares a small chuckle with him. “Your hair is pretty genius. I used to put all blonde in mine when I was younger. Sometimes think about doing it again.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

That makes Vince pause. His mouth twists in thought. It’s like he wants there to be a reason he can give but one just isn’t coming to him. “Not sure.” He says after a moment. “People like me with the black.” 

And if there wasn’t already so much to unpack from this encounter - Jones could have a field day examining that statement alone. 

Personally, he had never found it in himself to worry what other people thought about his life choices. Through a series of less than ideal life circumstances he had grown up mostly alone; no one to answer to but himself. When he dyed his hair or painted his own clothes or put makeup on then it was his choice. Granted it also meant learning how to throw a punch (a skill that had come in handy in years gone by) but he’d always been unwaveringly happy within himself. 

That being said, he was aware that to some, other people’s opinions  _ did  _ matter to them (he lived with Dan after all). This felt different. Vince speaks as if the opinions of others don’t just affect him but rather actively control him. 

It makes him inexplicably sad. 

Perhaps that’s why he says, “Wanna come back to mine?” 

For a second Vince seems startled by the invitation (Jones certainly is but he can’t back out now) but then he gives a shy smile. “Yeah, alright.”


	2. Things aren't always what they seem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince and Jones get to know each other a little better, they try to find meaning in their meeting, and a plan forms.

Jones is the DJ Leroy was raving about. 

It’s not explicitly stated, but Vince isn’t _completely_ thick; he’s quite good at reading context clues even if he’s a bit tipsy while he does it. When he’s commandeered to help carry some gear back to Jones’ house and the eccentric looking stage manager starts worshiping his double with cries of _“You are an artist!”_ it all clicks into place. Jones plays music. Was the one playing when Vince arrived. And he was _good_. 

As soon as they’re free from the building, walking side by side down dark London streets, he says as much. 

“You think?” Jones swings his gaze over to him; beaming humbly at the compliment. 

“Yeah!” Vince enthuses. “You’re a genius, my mate’s been telling me about you for ages.” 

Jones flushes. There is an attempt at a casual shrug but seeing as he has a backpack tossed over one shoulder and a heavy case in both hands, the end result is a bit clunky. He does utter a shy little, “Thanks.” 

And then silence. The companionable kind rather than the awkward kind, but silence nonetheless. 

It’s not born from lack of anything to say, either. Vince has a list of questions as long as his arm that he can’t wait to get into; excitement of it all putting a spring in his step. He has no doubt that the other man must have plenty to say as well (even though he’d seemed pretty reluctant about it at first) otherwise why would they bother going back to his place? 

Open air isn’t the right setting for a discussion about non-biological identical occurrences, though. Not when it is that precious time of early morning that sees the clubs emptying and gaggles of drunk people hitting the streets in their masses; searching for taxis and open all hours takeaways. 

It’s not a long walk, anyway. They reach a door that announces itself as ‘House of Jones’ after about ten minutes and the namesake roots in his jacket pocket for his keys. 

“I should warn you, I uh, I have a housemate.” He says it as if he is only now remembering that fact for himself. “He’ll probably be passed out by now.” 

“Oh,” Vince gnaws his lip uneasily - how were they going to explain this one away should they get caught? “I’ll try not to wake him up.” 

For whatever reason this amuses Jones, who shakes his head emphatically - coloured hair bouncing around his face. “You won’t wake him. Jus’ warning you there’s someone else about.” 

The door is swung open with a nudge of a skinny hip, and after following him through Vince politely shuts it behind him. Despite Jones’ insistence there is an effort made to do so quietly. From experience he knows how annoyed Howard gets when he is woken at _‘ridiculous o’clock’_ by the younger man stumbling home; he’d like to avoid inflicting the same annoyance on Jones' friend. 

A point of a finger instructs him where to drop the things he’s carrying. Right next to what look like _homemade_ decks. “These are brilliant!” He gasps gleefully, taking in the artistic way they seem to be put together. Looks as if they have been pulled into existence from scratch with all sorts of scrap material. 

Jones doesn’t reply to that comment verbally - Vince is starting to realise that while they share a face they do not share their affinity for talking. Thus far Jones has been a man of few words - but he does chuckle at him from where he’s crouched unloading cables from his backpack. “I’ll be with you in a sec,” Is what he says instead; flashing a grin up at him that conveys his modest nature.

This was a good opportunity to look around as any. 

The room's dark, only the dim glow of the street light outside filtering through the window and affording them some vision. Even with that Vince can tell the whole place is a tad chaotic. A lot like his own flat, he thinks. A kind of creative chaos that speaks for the people that live there. Fabric pinned from the ceiling and art covering the walls - he’d bet his entire record collection that it was Jones who decorated it (and that’s not just because there are _literally_ paintings of him on the walls). It simply feels a lot like how the man wants to present himself. Fun. Unabashedly strange. Existing in a style of his own without a care. 

A lot like Vince. 

It’s not exactly messy but there are signs of life scattered about the place. It gives it a homely feel. Empty bottles here and there, drained coffee mugs. A notepad full of barely legible scribblings on the floor next to - 

A person. 

There’s a person asleep on the sofa. The housemate he’s guessing; when Jones had indicated he’d be asleep Vince had assumed that meant _in a bedroom._ The shape of the man in the low light startled him enough to set his heart beating in double time, but it’s when he gets a closer look at the face peeking out from under a plush blanket that he exclaims, “Oh my god!” And promptly claps a hand over his mouth lest he wake the sleeping man.

Drawn by his surprise, Jones is at his side in a moment. Gentle fingers at his back like he expected him to swoon. “You alright?” 

“That your housemate?” He finds himself whispering. Whether this is from fear or politeness is undecided. Perhaps a healthy mix of both. 

“Yeah.” Jones does not whisper. Sighs fondly down at the shape of his friend. “He’ll be out until tomorrow.” He promises. 

Backing up his point is the almost drained bottle of Vodka laying on it’s side on the floor, he nudges it with the toe of his shoe disapprovingly. Dipping at the waist, Jones fishes two unopened bottles of beer from where they had rolled underneath the sofa, snatches a mostly full packet of cigarettes from the coffee table and then indicates for Vince to follow him. 

All the while he continues to stare at the startling familiar sleeping face.

Jones pauses from where he is trying to lead them from the room, sensing that Vince hasn’t the intention of following him. “What’s the matter?” 

Busy as he is being baffled by doppelganger two, he only spares Jones a quick glance to explain. “He looks _exactly_ like my mate.” 

There is a familiar twist to Jones’ features. The same one he'd gotten the first time he glimpsed Vince. Uncertain frown. An edge of panic in his eyes. Overall unsure if he wants to pursue this line of inquiry any further. “You wot?” It’s less of a request to repeat himself and more a general exclamation of absurdity. 

Vince feels that one; deep in the pit of his stomach. Meeting his own clone, no problem, stranger things have definitely happened. Staring into the face of Howard’s? That pulls him from pleasantly curious to deeply disturbed. This is no longer just a funny thing that’s happened now it's a _pattern._ Patterns repeat. Which means that Vince is just waiting for the plotline. The end goal. The bad juju that’s always afoot when things like this occur. 

“I mean… He’s older. I think. There’s a -” He sputters around his haste to explain; indicates to his face rather than say the word _beard._ “But that’s him. That’s 'oward. Except he’s-” 

“Dan.” Jones fills the name in for him without prompting. 

“What’s going on?” And he doesn’t keep the edge of frantic worry out of his tone. 

Once there was this terrible incident (that was only _marginally_ his fault) of the Mirror World going a bit haywire. Naboo ranting about alternate dimensions colliding and - basically the long and short of it; terrible consequences. He dreads to think he should have phoned his shaman friend the second he laid eyes on Jones rather than come home with him for a friendly chat. 

Briefly the thought of high tailing it out of there flits across his mind. But despite Jones’ rather convincing mask of calm, his eyes give away the depth of his distress and he finds he just can’t abandon him. They’re in this together. 

Besides - he doesn’t remember stepping through a mirror so there’s a good chance this is a whole _other_ problem. The trick will be figuring out what that is. 

The other man nods his head sharply down the hall. Directs them both to what Vince assumes is his bedroom and points at the bed with enough authority that he sinks into immediately. Thank god between them Jones seems to have gotten the leadership gene; this is normally the part Howard starts rhapsodising theories and plans (albeit terrible ones) while Vince listens on eagerly. 

He settles on the bed like he belongs there; he’s always been good at that. Slotting into a space as if he was an integral part. Jones, however, chooses to perch on the window sill, body tense and awkward like he feels out of place in his own bedroom. The way his gaze darts over him is calculating; weighing up Vince’s pros and cons. It seems only polite to keep his attention averted; hunches his shoulders as if to remind the man he isn't a threat. All the progress they'd made relaxing Jones into this strange encounter had been undone by the realisation in the living room. Much like Vince, he has taken the discovery that there are two Howard’s (or Dan’s) worse than the fact there’s two of them. 

The best distraction from this judgement is by in turn judging Jones’ bedroom.

Vince thinks that people’s bedrooms can say a lot about them. Jones’ bedroom definitely does. There’s art of his own face all over the flat - and Vince is as vain as they come - but given these new developments it’s a bit unnerving. The bed appears made but not perfectly, like someone has just smoothed the rumpled duvet over rather than waste time doing it properly. There’s bits of dark sparkly fabric hanging up here, like in the living room, as sort of makeshift curtains. On the bedside table there are two old mugs, one holding paint brushes and the other clearly used as an ashtray. There’s just stuff everywhere, to be honest. Clothes on the floor, canvases, parts of old computers that have been pulled apart. Notebooks and books stacked on shelves that (forgive him for the assumption) don’t look like they’d belong to Jones and so must be the property of the burly man asleep out there. 

Jones must be an overactive creative type. 

“So Dan looks like your mate?” The votes are in, he’s clearly worth keeping around. 

As a peace offering, Jones has uncapped one of the beers he brought with him and offers it out to Vince. Alcohol, not only a social lubricant but great for taking your mind off potentially world altering occurrences like these ones - Vince accepts the drink. 

He does notice that Jones doesn’t take one for himself. Rather, fingers another cigarette from his crumpled packet, content to chain smoke his troubles away. 

Remembering what they are here for in the first place, Vince digs his wallet from his jeans with one hand. Wrestles out the battered photograph he keeps in there - himself an Howard fresh faced and youthful in front of the keepers hut. “We were a lot younger then.” He warns as it’s passed to his new friend. 

The age of the photograph does nothing to stop Jones gasping out, “Fucking Hell.” 

“Yeah.” The only thing to do is to take a deep drink from his beer. “What do you think it means?” 

Jones looks to him then, frowning. “Wha'?” 

“Well it must mean something, right?” 

“To be honest, mate, I’ve no idea.” Jones remains enraptured by the image, staring at it while he fiddles with a chain around his neck anxiously. 

“How long have you known him?” Vince asks then; really expecting him to hold his questions in any longer was just unreasonable. There must be something, some reason they met. A pattern. History repeating itself. Maybe it _is_ just straight up coincidence but they won’t know until they talk. 

All at once Jones snaps from his thoughts and passes the photo back. “About eight years.” He replies. 

“How’d you meet?” 

Jones huffs a laugh before he answers, and Vince braces himself for what is bound to be an amusing story; shifts to fold his legs up under himself. “He wrote a pretty shit review of my music, I was just starting out so I probably _was_ a bit shit but it’s the principle of the thing, innit? Anyway, I bumped into him in a bar and tried to knock him down a peg or two - ‘cept he was off his face and I’m not in the habit of hitting people that are too drunk to defend themselves.” He smirks fondly at the memory, flicks ash into one of the abandoned mugs. “One thing led to another and he moved in with me.” 

Firstly, it’s so strange to hear about someone who looks so much like Howard acting so un-Howard like. Secondly, “He what?” 

“Well, he’d just been kicked out of his flat for bein’ an insufferable git and I like having someone around.” Jones shrugs at him like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Plus, once you get to know him, he’s a lot less prickly.” 

Vince can't believe what he's hearing. “You invited him to live with you after only knowing him one night?” 

“More like an hour, but yeah, basically.” 

It’s perhaps one of the most bonkers things he’s ever heard that it all at once sets him away laughing in deep heaves, he can't pull in air quick enough for hoe hard his laughter escapes. Jones is similarly snickering around his lit cigarette. He has to wipe at his eyes with the amusement of it all, pray his makeup survived. At least the other doesn’t deny the insanity of it. If anything he seems proud of that fact. 

“What about your Dan?” Jones asks. “Harold? How long have you known him?” 

“Howard.” Vince takes another swig of his nearly empty beer, fingers tapping against the glass thoughtfully. “Since we were little kids. Met in Primary School.” 

“Wow.” Jones gapes at him. “Tha’s ages.”

“Hmm.” Vince nods. “I was new at school and Howard had no friends. Match made in heaven, really.” Preemptively, Jones uncaps the second bottle and hands it to him when he finishes his first. Vince would feel guilty about drinking all his alcohol but it seems Jones isn’t bothered by it. Nicotine appears to be his vice of choice. “Though, I did have to follow him around for about three days before he even realised I wanted to be his mate. Reckon he thought I was takin’ the piss at first.” 

That makes Jones snort in amusement. “That’s the kind of thing Dan would do. Fairly sure he thought he just lived here until I _told_ him we were mates.” He says. “Do you live with yours too?” 

The question unwittingly brings back the fresh sting of an argument. “Yeah.” He tries to keep the same level of casual cheeriness to his tone but feels as though he isn’t successful. 

Jones frowns at him, concerned. “Alright?” 

“Yup.” He quickly finds something else for them to talk about ao as not to leave himself open to the scrutiny of his own eyes. “So. We look the same, and we have flatmates the same - what else have we got?” 

“Hmm, music?” 

“Electro.” Vince answers without a pause. 

Jones cocks his head to the side. “Techno.” He says as if correcting him. 

“We definitely don’t dress the same.” He makes a point to look over Jones’ form. He dresses a lot like his zoo era self had, that being in graphic t-shirts with the sleeves cut off and a pair of tight jeans. Accessories are thin on the ground but there; bracelets looped around his wrist and studded belts. The silver chain around his neck he keeps twisting with his fingers looks to be a pendant of some sort - the way he plucks at it a familiar enough action that he guesses he must wear it a lot. 

Though the trainers weren’t very him. He’s always been a boots man. 

“I don’t think I’m clever enough to put together something that fashionable.” Jones says. Vince takes that as a compliment, beams under the praise. 

“I’m in a band, that’s a bit like being a DJ isn’t it?” The rush of panic from earlier is giving way to something easier. This game of looking for similarities smoothing ruffled feather. It was like playing snap - harmless fun. 

He’s humoured with a laugh. “Sure, that’s the same. What do you play?” 

“Oh I don’t.” Vince grins around his drink. “That’s all Howard. I’m costumes and vocals.” 

“Does it always circle back to the clothes with you?” Jones asks, not at all unkindly, there’s a playful glint to his eyes. 

“Almost always.” He says with matching mirth. 

Jones snorts a laugh at him, picks at the hem of his shirt a little self consciously. And in the lapsing silence, Vince finds his curiosity still isn’t satiated. There is still so much he wants to know but isn’t sure how to find out without coming across as a little impolite. 

Then he remembers that he has always been able to cherry pick his manners and blurts, “What about your family?” 

The other man gapes at him. Subconsciously he tugs hard at the pendant around his neck. The lightning flash of annoyance in his stormy gaze is quickly replaced with resignation, though. Likely, he comes to the same conclusion as Vince. That he also wants to know these things - that it might help them figure out what’s going on. 

“I ain’t got one.” Jones sighs. 

And it’s a terribly sad thing, of course it is. But it’s also a bit of a comfort to Vince. Vince who had only a rough guess at his age because he’d been left in a jungle as a baby. Vince who is only _technically_ from London because that’s where he ended up when he was sent to _‘live a normal life’_. Who had initially been so panicked at the thought of a long lost twin because if he was abandoned then why not his hypothetical sibling? At least, in this, they have some sense of camaraderie. 

“Me neither.” He says. Jones affords him a soft smile. 

Encroaching silence makes Vince fidget -it’s becoming something of a habit for them, this not talking business. One he wishes he knew how to break, but he had a feeling that it was an obstacle present on Jones’ end of things keeping it this way. The only option was to wait it out. Vince sips his drink and Jones fiddles with his lighter, flicking the flame on over and over again. 

“’m not really sure what else we’re supposed to talk about, you know.” Jones says eventually. 

This statement is mildly amusing, at least that solved the silence problem. “We’re face doubles, we can talk about whatever we want.” 

“You’re so calm about all of this.” The way the other says it steeped in suspicion, but Vince doesn’t blame him for it. 

He keeps his posture open and his smile easy as he shrugs in response. “Weird things have a habit of happening to me, I’m used to it by now. Though Howard’s usually hanging off my shoulder beggin' for his life at this point.” 

Jones looks like he doesn’t know where to begin responding to that last part. So he avoids it all together. “Nothing weird ever happens to me.” He admits. “Dan’s the one to get all that rubbish.” 

“Maybe you were due one.” 

Jones flicks his lighter once more. “What if you were right. What if this is supposed to mean something.” 

Biting the bullet, Vince expresses what’s been on his mind since seeing Dan asleep on the sofa. “In my experience, when weird things happen, then it means something is going on.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

Vince nods confidently. “Yeah, a problem to solve. Some dilemma to overcome. It almost always _means_ something - moral of the story and all that nonsense.” 

“So we just need to figure out what the meaning is and solve it?” 

“That’s what me and Howard usually do.” 

Jones gets that look again, the one that Vince is is coming to understand means he’s thinking hard about something. For a double of him he does _a lot_ of thinking. “Okay, so if this were you and Howard where would you start?” 

“Well, usually we’ve _caused_ the problem that needs solving in the first place.” Anxiously, Vince’s fingers pick at the sheets he’s sat on. “Like it was _us_ that let the demon nana out and we - technically me - that let that fox in what robbed us.” He sighs heavily. “It’s easier then ‘cause we already know where to start. Not sure what to do with all this though.” 

Jones blinks dumbly at him a moment then announces. “You must lead an incredible life.” 

This makes him flush as much as Jones when you praise his music. “I do a bit, yeah.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

***

They’ve been talking for hours. 

Jones can’t remember the last time he had a conversation this long with someone that wasn’t Dan. Being friendly on a surface level is easy, but he doesn’t exactly leap to form deep connections. Struggles to get past the swamp of distrust and paranoia in order to allow for proper relationships to form. 

With Vince, he can already see this being a friendship. 

He has learnt that the other man works in a shop with his best friend, and that their band sometimes plays in a club called the Velvet Onion (which coincidentally Jones has heard of. Thinks he was booked there once - remembers the manager being a bit of a creep). He’s told him stories that before tonight Jones might have struggled to wrap his head around but something about the way Vince talks makes everything that falls from his mouth seem indisputable. 

Jones returns the favour with tales of different places he’s DJed and the hilarious scrapes his housemate gets into. Even passed a portable CD player and headphones to his new friend so he could hear more of the things he makes - Vince receives his music with a wide grin and an exclamation of ‘genius’. 

But there’s still something off about it all, he thinks. A missing piece of the puzzle. Vince has insisted they need to find meaning in their meeting and they try every avenue they can come up with. 

First they investigated the idea that it was perhaps their flatmates that were of interest - compared notes only to find there were more differences than similarities there. ( _"_ _What does Dan listen to?” “Almost anything really, he’s not too bothered.” “Ah, not a Jazz freak then?” “What?”_ ) 

They cycled through their own similarities and differences once more just to make sure there was nothing glaringly obvious that they missed and had ended up just swapping stories rather than doing much investigating. None of it is adding up to a cosmic problem that having the two of them meet will solve. At least not one he can see. 

Jones is superstitious enough to agree with his double, was certainly raised that way up to a point. He fingers the St. Christopher around his neck as he listens to Vince talk - regaling him with the tale of, from what he can tell, is an obsessive ex of Howard’s (Greg he thinks?) - and remembers how his Grandmother always told him that things happened for a reason. 

She’d been a sight more religious than Jones, but he shared the general sentiment. 

A familiar look crosses Vince’s face. He’s smiling as he chats but it’s a hollow imitation of the real thing (even in a few hours Jones has learnt to tell the difference) and his eyes look glassy and unfocused. It’s not the first time he’s seen that look either. It passes his face every few minutes, when he’s talking. Like it’s somehow painful to speak at all. And Jones suddenly thinks maybe this is like a sign, maybe they _had_ met for a reason. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, cutting off the story with his concern. 

Startled, Vince pauses. “Yeah,” He says far too quickly. It also wasn’t the first time he’d asked despite the answer being the same each time. 

An hour or two ago he would have believed him, but learning Vince’s body language was easy once he realised how similar it was to his own. The way his eyes cast downward as if in shame, how his fingers fidget, his teeth bite into his lower lip. He's seen children holding in lies acting in much the same manner. 

“Vince,” He presses. 

And maybe it’s because they have the same face, but Vince looks up at him with such trust in that moment that Jones’ chest aches for him.

“It’s nothing, really.” He sighs, scratches at his arm idly. “Just… Me an’ Howard haven’t been getting on that well lately. Had a fight before I went out last night an’ everything.” Jones’ throat feels thick at the manifestation of another parallel in their lives. The pendant on his neck feels like it’s burning, someone trying to tell him something. He nods his head encouragingly. “Talking about all these nice times we had reminds me we’re not really having nice times anymore.” Vince explains, somewhat lamely.

“If it makes you feel better,” Jones offers, tone hopeful. “Dan and I aren’t gettin' on lately either.” 

Vince’s little face lights up like the first sunny day after a rainstorm in response, like he has found the only other person in the world who can _really_ understand him. 

Maybe he has. 

“Aren’t we a pair.” Jones adds then. “What happened with Howard?” 

Gnawing on his bottom lip, Vince pauses in thought. He still looks sad, but it’s a less intense sadness. This sadness is old and worn, closer to resigned than it is the fresh sting that would make you want to burst into tears. 

“We got booked for this gig in America, would have been our big break and everything. ‘Course it all went wrong. We ended up sort of stranded together. Properly stranded on an island, and there were these coconuts and…” Something is being left out of the tale for the sake of summing up, he can tell. “We fell out over complete bollocks, like we always do, and then when we got back it just…” He trails off and shrugs. Can’t seem to find the words to explain it properly. 

“Just wasn’t the same?” He offers.

“Yeah. I dunno, I… I saw a side to him there I didn’t like.” 

“I can understand that,” Jones sympathises more than Vince could know. “It’s hard, when you think you know someone and then they do something so-” 

“Exactly,” Vilified by the support, Vince sits up a little straighter. Continues his verbal tirade. “I mean… He’s always been a bit of a prick but it’s never felt like he was doing it on purpose. Not like that.” Passionate rambling dims into guilty muttering. “So when we got back- I told him we should take a break from the band.” 

That information comes as a surprise, he feels his own eyes widen in response. When someone spends hours talking about their music and their relationship with their best friend as if both were his life blood then it seems pretty unlikely that person would want to put an end to both things in one fell swoop. He's not sure what to say other than to ask, “Then what?” 

“We took a break. Started working in the shop to make rent.” That guilty look again. “I _maybe_ started trying to get into everyone else’s bands rather than sort out ours, but- We still play! We’ve tried stuff, but none of it feels the same. Not really. And then he left. For good. Without me.” He laughs but it has no humour in it. “I mean, he was back within two weeks 'cause it’s _Howard_ , but still. He had no _intention_ of ever coming back - just pissed off with some film director. Didn’t even say a proper goodbye. Stuck his head 'round the door and said _‘I’m off will you be alright in the shop?’_ ”

He’s started to tear the label off the empty bottle he’s holding, just to give himself somewhere to channel his frustrated energy. “Whenever I’m in a room with him now I’m still so _angry._ Wish I could jus’ disappear for two weeks to show him how it feels, but- then I think how worried he’d be about me and I feel terrible for even considering it.” 

All he can do is hum his sympathy, more than familiar with the feeling of a relationship that feels slightly off centre compared to usual. He offers comfort easily on that front. “’S not your fault.” He says seriously. “Lots of people would wanna step back after something like that.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Then after a beat he decides to prove it. “Dan jumped out of a window.” 

Vince chokes around his gasp of surprise. “What?” 

Jones, desensitised to the whole ordeal after living it, can only nod to demonstrate his seriousness. “It’s not exactly a film director snatching him away but it had pretty much the same effect.” Vince is still gaping at him. “I thought I knew him, we’ve lived together for eight years. He’s a knob but he’s my best friend and… and I _thought_ I was his.” 

Belatedly, he realised that his new friend was the first person he’d actually spoken to about this. He’d been living in silence for months. Too busy dealing with the fallout that he hadn’t time to wallow in his own feelings. “I didn’t get told until ages after.” He admits. “One day he left for work and never came back. Found out by accident ‘cause I tracked down ‘is sister, completely freaked out - thought he might be dead in a ditch somewhere - and she told me.” He aches to have another cigarette but he sets himself daily limits for a reason, and he passed that hours ago. Instead he twists a lock of his hair in his fingers. “He’d been awake for three days. Didn’t even think to pick up the sodding phone and tell me he was alive.”

By far the worst part was Dan had known how much Jones suffers with fears of being abandoned, scars leftover from parents that didn't want a child and a Grandmother taken from him far too soon. They _talked_ about that stuff (mostly when Dan was off his face and Jones had been awake for four days straight - but still) about how he was constantly paranoid that he would be left behind _again_. Instead the bastard had left him a whole week thinking he’d driven someone else from his life. All it would have taken was one fucking phone call. 

Not that he'd been able to hang on to his fury for very long. 

There’s silence. Jones dreads to think he has made the other man awkward in the wake of his confession; he pulls on the strand of hair until it stings, uses it to ground himself. Resorts to tugging on the chain around his neck instead, lest he lose some strands to the twitchy fingers. 

Then, “Well my story sounds a bit pathetic now.” 

It startles Jones into a laugh, breathy giggles so intense he feels tears prickling at the corner of his eyes (relief?). Vince catches on too, his own laughter just a pitch lower than his and to his ears it harmonises. Would probably sound great on a track one day. For now, both of them bask in their ability to find humour in the darkness. In that at least, they are definitely the same. 

When they manage to pull themselves together Vince asks, in an echo of Jones' earlier statement. “Just wasn’t the same?” 

“Precisely.” Jones _finally_ climbs down from his window ledge and sags to the bed next to Vince. Drops back into a reclined position. “And I don’t think runnin' away for two weeks would solve this one, but I’ve not a clue where to start.” 

“You know, we could just talk to 'em about it all - that’s what grown ups do innit?” 

Jones rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but people who say that have never met Dan.” 

“Or Howard.” Vince agrees. A beat passes, they exist in each other’s company - comfortable. Then a grin splits his friend’s face. “Well, I still reckon we met for a reason. Maybe this is it.” 

“What, to solve our flatmate problems?” 

“Yeah, why not?” 

He tries not to find the sentiment too amusing because despite the perhaps misguided hope, Vince is just trying to help. “Vince, you’re a great bloke and I’m glad I chose to talk to you rather than smack you one - but I don’t see how having a double is gonna help here.” 

“Did you ever read _The Prince and The Pauper_ as a kid?” 

***

If there’s one thing that should be noted about Vince Noir it is that he has definitely come up with some crazy schemes in his time. He’s also been part of plenty of crazy schemes that _other people_ have come up with. 

Which of course makes him the most qualified to deem this scheme _not nearly as crazy as it sounds._

“You’re insane.” For having known him less than a day, Jones has developed a certain fondness in his tone when he accuses him of insanity. He quite likes that. “Utterly bonkers.” 

“I think it will work!” 

“It’s still bonkers.” 

Vince folds his arms over his chest in playful defiance, Jones retaliates by sticking his tongue out at him. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“So many things!” Thankfully, Jones is finding this more hilarious than anything else - god forbid he provokes the man into anger. “Even if nothin’ went wrong how is switching lives gonna change anything.” 

“Well, if you can’t talk to Dan - then I will. As you.” Foolproof plan, in Vince’s mind. 

Jones presses himself into a seated position, narrows his gaze at him. “Meaning you’ll expect me to do all the talking to your Howard then, I suppose?” 

Vince grins wider, pours as much charm as he can manage into the gesture (which is a lot). “Yup. All the adult conversations that we need to have, we can have, and we save each other the trouble really don’t we.” 

It is a great victory that Jones does not dismiss him outright for a second time. Instead he keeps his gaze locked on him, watching Vince with a small smirk. It encourages him to keep talking. "We look exactly the same, I'm sure between us we can sort our hair out enough to make it passing." He nudges the other man with his elbow. "It'll be fun! My life is great, you'll have a blast living like me." 

"What about the things we can't fake?" 

Vince frowns, confused at the question. He's always been good at faking. Vince existed as a mirror to what others wanted to see. He was a trend follower, built to emulate whatever was the in thing for the sake of his popularity. As far as he was concerned, he could play Jones and _then some_ without a problem. 

"Like what?" 

"Like your memories," Jones points out. Then waves his hand to indicate Vince’s entire being. "Or your fashion sense."

He tuts fondly at his new friend as if he were a confused child. "That's easy. I can tell you anything you need to know, and you'll have my wardrobe to use. Everything in there is something I _would_ wear so you can't go wrong."

Jones looks like he's coming around to the idea. The eyes squint less; smile is fading into the furrowed brow expression of thought. Slowly. Slowly but surely. 

"I still don't know about this, Vince." 

Ever a people pleaser, Vince is no stranger to compromise. "Then we'll do a test run." He suggests watching as Jones' interest is piqued. "One day. It's nearly morning yeah? You go home as me and if it's too weird we can swap back." He's teetering on the edge, a strong breeze would topple him over. 

It’s all about the context clues. "Don't people say everything happens for a reason?" 

That does it. The pendant Jones has been playing with all night (Vince thinks it might be a religious thing) finds itself plucked at with a new intensity. It's owner taking three distinct deep breaths, calming nerves, before he gives a decisive nod. "Okay, fine. I've got hair dye in the bathroom."

Vince leaps to his feet like an eager toddler, grinning with his success. 

***

It's a surprisingly less complicated process than Jones first imagined, becoming each other.

He keeps enough hair product in his small bathroom (mostly stolen from Stanley Knives for the purpose of maintaining his own barnet) that adding some streaks of red and then taking some of the length off of Vince’s hair is doable in just over an hour. He, of course, chats happily the entire time. 

“This is gonna be amazing!” He enthuses, tilting his head obediently where Jones instructs him. He’s never looked at his own hairdo more than when trying to emulate it. Keeps having to sneak glances in his bathroom mirror to cross check his work. “They’re not gonna know what’s hit ‘em.” 

“Dan definitely won’t,” Jones agrees, only half listening as he snips at another lock of hair. “He wouldn’t notice if the roof caved in around him, never mind if I swap places with- will you stop wigglin’.” 

Vince stills himself on command; little puffs of breath coming from between his bitten lips. Trying to contain his amusement. Jones gives a fond sigh and snips at another stray hair. Then he drags careful fingers through the newly shortened locks and beams. “Think you’re done.” 

It’s amazing that he doesn’t topple right over the way Vince nudges him out of the way to get at his own reflection. Coos at himself the way one might at a new baby. “I look pretty good!” He announces, ruffling the damp locks with his own hands. “Maybe I should try the colour thing too, when this is all over. I could start a trend." 

"You'd suit blue." Jones replies easily, reaching out his own fingers to brush at his fringe. "Right here, frame your face. Brings out your eyes."

Vince looks at him, aforementioned eyes sparkling, and despite his own apprehensions Jones begins to understand why this plan might be good for them if you looked at it in the right light. If nothing else it would provide a short escape from their own problems (granted while taking on the burden of someone else’s), escape enough to clear their heads. 

Since meeting him he had come to understand Vince as a ball of energy (whether that be excitable or anxious) at all times. Now though, he seems docile. Relaxed. Like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. 

“Your turn!” He says, and who was he to deny him? 

And Jones is not in the habit of lying to himself - it's incredibly nerve wracking, throwing a towel over his shoulders and letting Vince dump dye on his head. 

He hadn’t had his hair be one solid shade since his teenage years, always preferring to flit about from colour to colour. It was a calculated choice to do so, changing it like camouflage; hiding from a person he used to be. In the interest of being completely honest, he doesn’t even remember what his natural colour looks like anymore. 

Vince seems to sense his hesitation. “You can tell Howard I cut it short - I am the midnight barber - don’t think he’d believe I’d change colours overnight, though.” 

It’s a reasonable precaution to take; that doesn’t stop Jones making eye contact with him in the mirror and pointing out, “You literally have just changed it overnight, though.”

Pausing in his movements, Vince squints back at him like he’s suggested a complicated equation and then snaps. “Shut up.” 

It’s a surprisingly playful thing though, they share identical smirks. 

As he works, he does his best to fill Jones in with all sorts of information that varies from incredibly useful to _‘I’m not sure why he told me that’_. Things like Vince’s hit and miss relationship with food, mostly consisting of sweets thanks to his insatiable sweet tooth (that should be easy, Jones suffers a similar problem with his own diet). “Though, Howard does make some pretty genius meals,” He adds thoughtlessly, and Jones smirks to himself. 

He wonders if Vince is familiar with the term _lovesick._

Or _denial,_ for that matter. 

Then there’s the things that Jones probably could have worked out without being explicitly told. “I’m the sunshine kid, obviously.” Vince brags, nudging Jones’ shoulder until he can rinse his hair under the faucet. “Howard’s the gloomy one.” 

He even gets a rundown on the fight that forced Vince out into the night in the first place; 

“A cape?” Jones asks, incredulous. “You fought over a cape?”

“Exactly. I don’t know why he’s always on about it, I’m not _that_ messy.” Vince’s voice is muffled a little, from where Jones is busy toweling his dripping hair dry again - but he still hears the disbelief in the other’s tone. 

And look, Jones wasn’t exactly a clean freak himself, but he _was_ the one typically chasing Dan around the flat picking up discarded bottles and crumpled bits of paper - so he perhaps sympathised with Howard in that particular scenario. 

Some of the facts he has been clued into he doesn’t see being useful at all. For example, the fact that Vince’s favourite colour is yellow but he will _always_ pretend it’s dark blue because that works with his goth aesthetic better ( _“And I can’t just say black that’s what people expect.”_ ). Though he supposes the more information the better when you’re trying to pull off a performance like this one - it would be just his luck this Howard bloke asked him something about colours and at least he now knew what to say. 

There’s one bit of information he’s glad to know before he struts into this insanity. 

“Oh, we share our flat with two other people as well.” He says around the thumb he’s chewing on. “Naboo, he’s a shaman, and Bollo - he’s a gorilla.” 

Jones peers out from under the towel, blinks at the other man. He opens his mouth but to be perfectly honest he’s not sure where to start forming a response to that. His jaw clicks shut - he’s going to assume the gorilla thing is a metaphor. 

“You didn’t think to mention before?” He scolds instead, but it’s only half serious. It’s not that big of a problem considering some of the things he’s going to have to tell Vince about Dan's living habits. 

“I’m mentioning it now, aren’t I?” Vince reaches out and snatches the towel from around Jones’ head, moving the topic swiftly along. “Let us see, then!” 

It’s strange how just the shade of your hair can make you look so different. It had been mostly dark anyway, but now, without the colour offsetting it - he looks older. The person looking back at him from within the mirror is a complete stranger. 

“We’re really doing this.” He says to his own reflection (the one in the mirror _and_ the one perched on the edge of his bathtub grinning at him). 

“One day.” Vince reminds him, perceptive as ever to his nerves. “We can swap numbers and stay in touch - if you wanna back out then we can.”

Jones repeats this information to himself again mentally, a mantra of comfort. Then, with a puff of a breath, he spins on his heel and addresses Vince. “Right, there are things you need to know about being me then.” 

Vince listens like an eager child as Jones relays all the information he can think of that might be useful. 

He starts with the desperately important stuff, “Dan’s still havin' trouble with his leg right now and he can be a right stubborn arse so if he gets this look,” He does his best to pull what he's come to know as _the pain face;_ mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown and eyebrows bunched together - it makes Vince giggle. “Then he’s probably aching something rotten and needs his meds - but he _cannot_ drink after he’s taken them and he _will_ try so… Don't let him.” 

He hopes to whatever God might be in the sky that Vince is capable of delivering enough tough love to make Dan follow orders - it’s a bit of an art form that took Jones some time to perfect. 

“We don’t really have any other housemates,” He lands on then, his thoughts all jumbling and fighting to get out before he forgets to mention them. “Dan’s sister Claire was crashing with us but she’s moving out.” As he explains Vince nods his head along with him. “She still tends to come and go as she pleases, though. Don’t be surprised if she just shows up.” 

In between thoughts he tugs Vince back through to the bedroom, shuts them inside. They’re going to have to switch clothes too. 

Some things he only mentions as an afterthought, like Barley. Jones hates him just as much as Dan does but probability dictates Vince won’t ever have to meet him. “He’s a twat but Dan's sort of working with him; if goes off on one then just nod along and call him names - you’ll do fine.” 

“Can I ask you something?” Vince says, tugging one of Jones’ shirts over his head while he tries to figure out how Vince manages to get his jeans buttoned when they’re this tight; he can only hum breathlessly. “You know you’re basically Dan’s caretaker right?” 

That makes him laugh, and he doesn’t have it in him to deny it. “Yeah, a bit.” 

“‘Cause everythin’ you just told me was about him.” 

He pauses, replays everything he has said and then shyly mumbles. “Yeah, I s’pose it was.” He pulls the soft material of Vince’s blouse over his head and looks over at his friend. “I don’t reckon it’s going to be that hard for you to pass yourself off as me, to be honest.” 

Chances are Dan won’t talk to him anyway - he certainly didn’t when it was _actually him_ here. 

When Vince only frowns at him for that statement he hurries to explain, “Dan doesn't talk a lot. Not like your Howard does, anyway. He’s more a silent broody type.” He dips to tug on Vince’s boots - thank god they’re the same shoe size as well. “Noticing things about me isn’t his main priority.”

This hangs in the air between them. Vince looks contemplative and then says; “I bet he notices more than you think he does.” 

It’s an unbelievably sweet thing for the other man to have said, and he suddenly feels the urge to pull him into a hug. He does. It’s a bony affair, sharp angles on the pair of them clashing. Elbows and hip bones and ribs jamming together (a xylophone sound effect would be apt right about now). 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Vince says when they draw apart again. “I’ll look after him.” And it should be scary how Vince can read him like that, but he supposes it’s also what he’s worrying about. 

After all, they’re doing this to save their respective relationships aren’t they? 

“Right, give me your number.” Jones orders rather than thank him for the sentiment, digging out his phone so that he can input the digits that are recited to him. 

It’s 9am already. just over nine hours since he met Vince and he’s turning his whole world upside down. Who’d’ve thought it. 

“I’ll call you at 6.” Vince says. “Then we can decide what we’re going to do.”

“Right.” Jones is hovering by his bedroom door, ready to sneak past his sleeping housemate and out into the world. Off to someone else’s home and a familiar stranger that he’s expected to somehow talk to. God why did he agree to this?

Already he can see himself calling the whole thing off by early afternoon. He hasn’t even left yet and he’s already missing the comfort of his own clothes - he's handed off all his accessories to Vince bar the pendant on his neck; refuses to part with that. He's not even religious but he hasn't taken it off since it was given to him and now more than ever the weight of it against his chest is comforting. 

His Grandmother was probably looking down on him and calling him a twat.

He's reluctant to leave his home. The smell of Dan’s cologne lingering in the air, mingling with stale smoke and creating a familiar scent that Jones equates with comfort.

_His decks._

“One last thing,” He says, anxious energy fizzing in the pit of his stomach as he points a warning finger at Vince. “Don’t touch my decks. I mean it.” It was as threatening as he could sound while fighting the urge to vomit with nerves. “I’ll know if you do.” 

Vince salutes him, a cheeky grin on his face. It’s the closest to his word as Jones is going to get. 

He takes a deep breath, and he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a bit of a talky one. But! Mismatched pairs meet next chapter!! 
> 
> Thank you for all the support so far! As ever I can be found on Tumblr:  
> @crazy-mad-insane / @anciientboosh


	3. You look like somebody I used to love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jones meets Howard, learns how *not* to approach a sensitive subject with him. Vince tries to find out more about the person he's supposed to be playing, realises Dan is a lot rougher around the edges than first anticipated, and maybe he breaks a rule.

Getting from Shoreditch High Street to Dalston Junction should realistically take no more than fifteen minutes. If the ever unreliable rail system is operating on time (which of course it _is_ \- the one day Jones would have preferred to see a declaration of delay) then it’s a disturbingly short journey that has kept the lookalikes apart all this time. 

But as it happens, fifteen minutes is nowhere near enough time for a person to mentally prepare themselves for meeting their housemate’s double. So Jones takes the scenic route (as scenic as North London can be at nine o’clock in the morning). His talent for procrastination comes to good use by turning a one mile journey of fifteen minutes into something closer to an hour. Really, he’s the master of time wasting, if it were a sport he’d be an olympian. 

It’s only a hair’s width before ten when he finds himself hovering beneath a neon monkey head, his neck craned to watch how it sways hypnotically in the morning breeze.

The shutters are up, which he had expected at this time, and as a result he keeps himself secluded just out of sight of the shop window, casting furtive looks through the glass. Arguably creepy behaviour, but a necessary evil while he scopes out the terrain he is about to invade. It’s going to take him a moment to wind himself up enough to commit to this. 

He should have had at least two coffees before he left, the lack of caffeine in his system wasn’t helping - not when he had already been awake for over forty consecutive hours and was more than due a crash. 

Too little too late. 

For a second he’s not sure anyone is even inside, which is a blessing. He starts to think he can perhaps creep in unnoticed and announce himself after he's had a chance to scrabble the pieces of his lie together in a more comprehensive manner. But then a man (quite clearly Howard) shuffles out from a door behind the shelves and sags against the counter in a display of exhaustion. 

No amount of photographs could have prepared him for seeing the man in the flesh. His breath rushes from his lungs in a twisted sound; a gasp and a disbelieving laugh all in one. It’s both the best and worst thing he’s ever seen with his own two eyes - Vince included. 

Much like with himself and his doppelganger there are plenty of differences should you go looking for them - obvious ones, more obvious than the ones between the two younger men - but on a fundamental level that man _is_ Dan. A Dan whose life took a very different route maybe, but it’s him. His tiny brown eyes and his unruly hair; wolfish features and broad shoulders. 

It simultaneously draws him in and drives him away. 

Vince had warned him of Howard’s tendency to worry while also being the kind of person who is reluctant to put that concern on show; preferring to bury it under nagging and playful banter. But from the perspective of an outsider, it’s as clear as day to him. From where he’s peeking into the window he can see how the man fidgets anxiously. He’s making an attempt to read a newspaper but checks his watch with enough frequency that he may as well not even bother. All the while he taps the fingers of his free hand against the nearest surface; pointed canines pulling at his lip. 

Jones is so used to seeing a frown on Dan’s face that it’s come to be an expression he expects. But on Howard’s? It doesn’t sit right with him. Without having spoken a word to the man yet he can safely say that misery does not suit him. All at once he wants to be the one to fix it. 

_This is it_ , he thinks. Once he steps inside he is committed to at least a day. He’d promised Vince that until 6pm he would give this his best shot. Eight hours, shouldn’t be too hard, should it? That's what people with real jobs call a work day.

It's the thought of what Vince is no doubt going through with Dan the propels him into the warm air of the shop. Tit for Tat. 

The bell above the door dings to announce his entrance and Howard’s gaze whips up like it’s on a bungee cord. The moment he realises that it is him (or Vince) the relief is clear on his features. Tension dropping from him in a rush. Closely followed by that, though, is guilt that probably accompanies the memory of their argument. Finally, the whole ensemble is smothered completely in annoyance. That’s fair, he’s already made it clear he was on Howard’s side when it came to _that_ particular falling out. He’d be a bit pissed at Vince too. 

“Have you cut your hair?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, and god he even _sounds_ like Dan. Were they both from Leeds? Maybe they were _actually_ long lost twins even if Vince and Jones weren’t. It’s a thought he puts away for further examination later. 

In the immediate, he does his best to emulate a Vince like stance - which wasn’t too hard. Upon examination the pair found they had similar postures. Pigeon toed and cock hipped. “A bit.” He shrugs it off casually, chooses not to get into it in the hopes Howard will do the same. 

It works, the other man is left eyeing him warily from where he is still propped against the counter. Jones isn’t sure what to say to him, busy as he is studying the resemblance from this new perspective. His hair is longer, curling adorably around his ears and down his neck, while Dan’s remained cropped short after the paint incident. The moustache on Howard is certainly a contradiction to Dan’s almost permanent beard (almost permanent because once in a blue moon the man will be motivated enough to shave). 

Still. It’s the eyes that capture his attention the most. Jones’ always liked Dan’s eyes; a little on the small side but forever packed with such warmth, regardless of the owner's mood. They never failed to draw him in. And the way they’re looking at him now? Knocks all sense from him. 

“Wasn’t expecting you back this early.” Howard mutters petulantly, averting his eye line to the newspaper still resting on the counter - Jones can think a bit more clearly without the eye contact. 

The dig isn’t technically aimed at him, it’s clearly commentary on Vince’s behaviour, but this does nothing to stop his metaphorical hackles rising in response. It's certainly a weakness of his, his tendency to be mouthy. He’s never been able to take shit lying down; it’s almost certainly why he was able to form _and_ maintain a friendship with Ashcroft. He’d never been afraid to go chest to chest with him, ordering him to _shut the fuck up_ when he get’s on his high horse about whatever topic of the day was riling him up. And Dan _liked_ that about him - he’d said as much before (arguably, he was drunk, but he likes to think the point stands). 

Something tells him this will not be an attitude that Howard is accustomed to though. He’s going to have to consciously soften himself around the edges in order to deal with this man. 

“Wasn’t expecting to be chased out in the first place.” He says echoing a sentiment Vince himself had made known only hours ago. 

It’s both the right and wrong thing to say. Howard’s features pinch into resignation, but he continues to engage with him; seemed to have expected a response just like that one. “You didn’t _have_ to leave.” 

“Didn’t I?” Jones claps back sharply. But that look, eyes wide(ish) and hopeful. It’s like when a dog comes scampering up to you after being told off, begging forgiveness and it sends him soft. He adjusts his approach accordingly. “I was a bit wound up, is all.” he says, scuffing his toe against the floor. “I’m sorry.” 

Howard appears startled at the apology despite the fact Jones thinks it is a more than appropriate thing to say. It leads him to wonder how often a genuine sorry comes out of Vince’s mouth. 

“It’s okay.” Howard says. Features painted in a shade of awkward. Jones has seen this expression on Dan too, when there’s something on his mind but he isn’t quite sure how to begin explaining it. He looks like that a lot these days; brimming with things he just can’t bring himself to say. “I was a bit of a prat, too, I think.” 

“Yeah, you were.” The tease comes naturally, like it might with his own friend. Howard relaxes, as does Jones - it's comforting to know that in some places his banter is exactly the same as Vince’s, he’s just going to have to figure out _where._

“Look, I’m gonna go-” He waves at himself, and Howard nods in understanding. 

“Sure.”

Jones follows what he remembers Vince telling him (“ _There’s stairs at the back of the shop, they go up to the flat”)_ and disappears in that direction. The second he is out of eye line he affords himself a little fist bump, bouncing on his toes in a contained dance to celebrate his first successful performance as Vince. 

Closely following that is the rush of misguided excitement that being in a foreign flat brings him. Because it seems like the perfect time to do a little bit of his own investigations into Vince Noir and his crazy lifestyle. 

His first impression is that the flat is actually quite cool. He’s immediately drawn to the mismatched furniture and the colours on the walls - the psychedelic wallpaper offset by the bright red paint creating a pleasing aesthetic in his mind. There’s art everywhere, as well. Depicting strange geometric creatures in an imaginative use of the colour spectrum. He finds himself drawing his fingers over the rough surface of a canvas that has a wolf-like being scribbled on it. It’s all self made art, if the little V that is etched into the corner says anything, which serves to make him yearn for his own art supplies at home. It’s been too long since he last had the motivation to pick up his paint brushes, after this he might have to get Vince over for a bit of an artists session.

After that he ventures down the small hallway in search of a bedroom and hopefully a change of clothes. There are three doorways waiting for him there. Vince had told him that he and Howard shared a room - which would be something he found odd had he not been sharing one bedroom with two other grown adults for a considerable amount of time. Not that Jones ever sleeps, anyway, he goes for days on end and even then ends up crashing on the sofa half the time. 

He opens the door to his right and finds a bathroom. Then glancing between the door in front of him and the door to his left. 

Thankfully his next attempt, the one on the left, finds him in the bedroom that is _definitely_ Vince and Howard's. 

It's like someone has drawn a line down the middle of the room, how stark the separation is. It’s two worlds colliding in a strangely beautiful way. Closest to him, the side that also holds the door, is what he assumes is Howard’s side. The bed made to military precision, the sheets a dull green colour. There’s a small desk in the corner and everything is organised at a right angle. 

And on the other side? 

It’s like a bomb made of fabric has been dropped. There’s clothes on the floor, on the bed, spilling out of drawers and hung over the slightly open wardrobe door. A vanity table crammed below a window (the best place for natural light, he imagines) is overflowing with perfume bottles, makeup, discarded face wipes, creams and moisturizers. A pair of straighteners lay discarded on the side and the bed looks like it hasn’t been made _ever._

If that doesn’t give it away as Vince’s then the array of empty sweet packets intermingled with all his other belongings would. 

As he continues to look he does get a better understanding of what makes Vince tick. Without sounding rude he was obviously something of a vain and hedonistic creature (in some ways, Jones can relate). His existence is centred around his fashion, his hair, his appearance, and his popularity.

But underneath that? There is so much more, more than Vince himself had told him. 

Little, easily missed trinkets adorn the surfaces too, speaking to a sentimental side of Vince's character. A snow globe from Euro Disney, a memento from a past holiday perhaps. A patch that looks like it has been ripped directly from a jacket and pinned to the wall; Zooniverse, it says. A postcard from Leeds carefully propped behind some of his perfume bottles so one might not see it unless they were actively looking - Jones doesn't need to read it to guess who it might be from.

He finds a sheet of paper folded and tucked in one of the vanity tables drawers; a page from a type writer with a single sentence written on it. It looks like the opening to a novel that for whatever reason had been discarded, though clearly Vince thought it good enough to keep. In the same drawer there is flyers with Vince and Howard's faces printed on them. Newspaper clippings telling of Zookeepers and their adventures to the arctic. Boarding passes for a boat trip to America. A copy of Goth Weekly - again, the pair's faces staring out at him. 

The list goes on; and he's starting to sense a theme. 

Jones' heart swells with affection for his new friend and his predicament - whether he acknowledges it or not. 

He is concerned about being gone from the shop too long though, worried Howard would come up looking for him and grow suspicious if he didn’t make an appearance soon. So he tucks all the items back almost exactly as he found them and turns to the wardrobe. 

Going through Vince’s wardrobe feels somehow more intimate than going through his secret treasures; and it’s a battle to find anything that he’d feel comfortable wearing. It’s not even that he doesn’t _want_ to wear some of the feminine blouses or (clearly handmade) jumpsuits he finds - in fact he’d quite like to try and branch out in terms of his fashion sense now that he has met Vince and witnessed what is possible. After all, it worked on him so logically it should work on Jones, shouldn't it? 

His problem lays entirely in his own disbelief in his abilities to pull it off with as much glamour as Vince does. Despite sharing the same face, this is an instance that Jones sees himself as the slightly less pretty one. 

Luckily Vince keeps t-shirts in the back ( _way_ in the back) of his wardrobe that he must have worn at some point in his life. The one he ends up digging out is red and white striped with long sleeves, and he pairs that with a pair of dark skinny jeans. 

And as he checks himself in one of the many mirrors Vince keeps handy there’s a jacket that catches his eyes. It’s been staring at him as he dresses. He’d spotted it on his initial outfit search but had dismissed it as something he probably wouldn’t be able to pull off. It looked like black velvet, fitted to the shape of Vince’s (and his) body, covered in an array of silver stars and planets. 

He likes it. But would it even go? Would it sit on his frame as well as it no doubt did on his double’s? 

“Oh fuck it.” He snaps to himself, snatches the jacket from the hanger and pulls it over his shoulders. “I’m Vince now. Which means if I wanna wear a sparkly jacket, then I can, can’t I?” 

Speaking to his reflection, he turns this way and that. And okay, the jeans and the stripy shirt isn’t that far off from what he'd normally wear, but with the jacket on top he suddenly _feels_ like a new person. In a good way. It does sit on him quite nicely, and he thinks he starts to understand why Vince is as drawn to fashion as he is. It’s kind of thrilling, this feeling of power the right outfit can give you. 

It does make him feel a bit bad that Vince is stuck with Jones’ rather lackluster wardrobe (consisting of a whole host of t-shirts but not much else) but he had no time to linger on that thought. 

A fresh grin on his face, he sets off back towards the shop. He’s got a conversation about a crumbling relationship to have. 

*** 

Vince has always been a nosey person. He can’t help it; he has an inquisitive mind. 

Thus it is only natural that the first thing he does upon Jones’ departure is begin to snoop around the flat. 

He tells himself it’s to get a better understanding of the person he is supposed to be imitating. A reasonable thing when you consider that he had drawn the short straw with useful information. Look, he already _adored_ Jones (in the way that Vince finds it very easy to adore people around him to a certain extent) but he quite literally left Vince with _nothing_ to work with besides basic care instructions for Dan. 

_He didn’t even know what his name was other than ‘Jones’._

Sure, Jones knew his housemate better than anyone else, but Vince refused to believe that after eight years of sharing the same living space Dan wouldn’t notice something amiss if Vince got this wrong. He _needed_ to know more. 

So yeah, he snoops. 

He’s surprised to find that there is in fact a second bedroom in the place; albeit one that is crammed to the rafters with boxes, furniture, and other miscellaneous items that render it completely unusable as a place to sleep (it looks like there’s a piano wedged against the wall where a bed should be, dusty and unused). It explains why the three people that lived here have been using one bedroom on a seemingly random rotation system. 

Speaking of which, the actively in use bedroom is where he finds himself next. No stone goes unturned in his search for answers. He gets to his hands and knees and peeks under the bed, finds a collection of more Jones' face prints; these ones mustn’t have made the cut to get onto the walls. There’s a few storage boxes crammed with electrical parts. An abandoned notebook with indecipherable scribbles relating to Jones’ music - things like _'Train!'_ or _'reverberated traffic'_ that make absolutely no sense to him. An array of forgotten clothes lingers under there, too; the odd sock and a bra he’s going to imagine is Dan’s sisters. All in all, nothing that tells him much about the man who lives here. 

Even a root through drawers and a poke around shelves only tells him that Jones’ main priority in life is the music he makes - which he can understand- and closely following that is his apparent fascination with pulling things apart and seeing what he can remake out of the pieces. 

Third on his list of priorities? Dan. 

They’re hidden away, likely so the man himself won’t find them, but when Vince goes searching through an old looking jewelry box he finds them. Scribbled notes (spelling and handwriting a lot better than Vince’s own but still not perfect) about Dan’s medication, his doses, physio instructions, appointment times and doctors contact details. 

He’s certainly a dedicated kind of friend.

Dan himself doesn’t budge for the entire few hours Vince spends looking around. Not even when he goes hunting through the kitchen cupboards and accidentally sends a precarious stack of dishes crashing to the floor and subsequently finds himself tossing shards of broken china away. 

There’s no attempt to tiptoe around the sleeping figure as he concludes his searching in the living room. He has a brief spate of success there; finds a collection of magazines sat next to a half eaten packet of Jelly Tots that he deduces _definitely_ belong to Jones - it’s not much, but it’s a tad more insight into his personality than Jones himself had given him. He reads _NME_ too, thank god, and it seems they share a sweet tooth. 

Other than that it appears the majority of the non-musical belongings about the place actually belong to Dan (laptop perched on the coffee table, pages upon pages of half composed articles, and script treatments covered in red pen). Which leads him to wonder if the reason he can’t figure Jones out is because of Dan’s encroaching existence in the flat, or if it’s because Jones himself takes great care to make sure there is nothing left lying around that would let people _know_ him. 

Whatever the case, he still has nothing much to go on when he drops onto the sofa adjacent to Dan with a heavy sigh almost two hours after their parting of ways. 

Let’s hope Dan really is oblivious to his housemate and just doesn’t notice. 

He’s eyeing the decks in the corner with interest when the front door bangs open loudly, startling him to his feet once more. 

For a split second he is worried it is his double come back, abandoning their plan because Howard just knew better and called him out on the switch immediately. Or maybe he’d known Vince was thinking about using his equipment. 

All that goes out the window when “Dan!” Come screeching from the hallway - the voice that of a very irate woman - and he realises this must be the sister he was warned about. 

There is precious few times Vince has been in the presence of someone as angry as this lady sounds and his past experiences teach him that he should not be in the room when she eventually rounds the corner - he panics, does a full rotation on his heel before the kitchen is decided upon as a perfect place to seclude himself. He’s not sure if Jones would normally hang about to get in between them, break up the fights maybe? But he certainly isn’t interested in playing that role today, thank you very much. 

“Dan?” Is yelled again, this time clearer as the owner of the voice comes to a stop in the living room. “Get up, you pillock!” A dull thud of something soft (a pillow?) connecting with a person and a sharp intake of breath that indicates Dan waking up. 

“Wha-?” Is the grumbled noise he makes. He sounds _exactly_ like Howard does when he’s just woken up and it makes Vince grin into his fist. 

“Nathan has been calling you all bloody morning.” And that explains the high pitched trilling noise he’d been hearing while he looked around. Honestly he had just been ignoring it; put it down as a quirk of the flat rather than assume it was a phone ringing. 

“‘Aven’t got my phone.” Dan says around a yawn. The woman does not like this answer, another thud; this one makes even Vince grimace in sympathy when Dan hisses through his teeth - Jones’ written instructions come to mind. Wonders if he should dig out some medication preemptively; it certainly feels like the kind of thing _Jones_ would do. 

“I can’t _believe_ you’re being like this.” The woman scolds. 

There’s no verbal reply from Dan, but he must do something because the woman huffs at him. “You’re a bastard.” is what she says curtly. 

Vince’s mind reels. Is this what Jones lives with all the time? No wonder his sunshine persona was tainted with something more intense than Vince’s own character. The kind of 'cockney ragamuffin' energy he himself has boasted about before but rarely puts on display - Jones was a walking manifestation of it. 

“Where’s Jones?” He hears the woman ask, and Vince’s heart jumps into his throat. This is the point in the plan (occurs in almost every plan he’s ever made) where he wonders _why he ever thought this was a good idea._ He darts his gaze over the small kitchen, searching for something to do so it won’t look like he was just hiding and listening in on them. 

“How should I know?” Dan says, the sofa creaks, footsteps on the carpet. “Probably passed out,” as he says it, his voice gets nearer and nearer. Shit. 

In his haste, Vince forgets he’s supposed to be someone else and defaults to his natural state. This translates as boiling the kettle. He adopts a casual stance, leaning with his back to the counter, and stares down at his fingernails like he was so busy trying to pick what colour to paint them he couldn’t possibly have heard the argument unfolding just a room away. 

Dan stalks into the doorway, tiny eyes narrowed and flitting all over his form. Vince doesn’t say anything; he had thought being in a room with him all morning would have desensitised him to the resemblance, but now that he’s awake and walking around it’s a lot more striking.

“Found him.” Dan calls to the woman, and then he’s gone. Continues down the hall and slams a door shut somewhere that could be the bathroom or the bedroom. 

Shortly after that the woman appears in his place; her long hair the same shade as Dan’s is pulled into a ponytail and her eyes look tired. “Alright, Jones.” She greets, but in the same moment walks straight past him to the fridge. Vince still doesn’t say a word, just nods at her - which must be exactly what she expected anyway because she doesn’t comment. 

Vince is almost certain Jones had mentioned she was in the process of moving out, so he’s unsure why she is currently rooting through the refrigerator and helping herself to whatever scraps she happens to find in there. 

“Claire!” Dan’s voice echoes through the walls. 

“What?” Claire yells right back. Vince is thankful he has turned his back to make a cup of tea, otherwise Claire may have noticed how he flinches at the sheer volume of her voice. It seems the fact Dan had shouted and then not replied pisses her off enough that she slams the fridge shut and storms from the room, though. Muttering “Dickhead.” as she goes. 

It doesn’t take long before the disgruntled voices start up once more. Or rather, Claire’s does, because when Jones had said Dan was a silent type he hadn’t been exaggerating. At least she’s not shouting this time, though, just talking rather loudly. 

Four sugars find their way into Vince's tea just as Clair snaps, _“It’s your contractual obligation!”_ and he decides it might be best for him to put some distance between himself and the arguing. 

Not that it makes a difference, he’s no sooner settled himself behind Jones’ decks (he’s just looking, he won’t touch) than the pair of them reappear in the room with him. 

“You better be there!” Claire is bustling for the door - face red with fury. “I mean it, Dan.” 

Dan stalls at the edge of the room; he’s changed shirts but otherwise looks just as disheveled as he had when he woke up twenty minutes ago. The only response he gives to his sister's anger is to flip her off with both hands. Her lip twitches and she looks so similar to how Howard (and therefore Dan, probably) looks before he _really_ loses his temper that Vince finds his own stomach lurching anxiously. 

Luckily she only turns on her heels and storms out of the flat; slamming the door hard enough to make the frame rattle. 

Vince sips at his tea silently, watches Dan watching the door. It’s like he wants to be certain she isn't going to return; entire body tense and on guard. It lasts for around a minute and then with a sigh all the apprehension seeps from his frame. He’s a whole new man now that he doesn’t look like he’s waiting for something to swing for him. The expression on his face is still pinched in annoyance but the downward slant to his mouth is more tired than it is genuine anger. 

It suits him better. 

“What was all that then?” He finds himself asking. Dan’s gaze whips to him like he hadn’t even noticed he was in the room. _R_ _ude._

He makes a point to hold his gaze steadily, channels the small part of himself that radiates the same cockney confidence Jones operates on. For what it’s worth, Dan is not afraid of eye contact the same way Howard is - stares right back. 

“Barley’s pilot launch party tonight.” He replies stiffly. “Apparently part of my responsibility to go.” 

The name rings a bell. Not in a good way, this was one of those things that was likely going to irritate the other man he was sure. The way Dan’s face has only continued to descend into a frown the likes of which Vince has never witnessed on another human being before confirms this fact. This party is indeed a _terrible_ thing. 

Vince’s natural instinct is to comfort. “Well, what’s gonna happen if you _don’t_ go?” Dan shrugs at him, which he interprets as _pr_ _obably nothing._ “Then don’t go.” He says, simple as that. 

“But-”

“Ain’t nothing in the world worth making yourself _that_ miserable over.” And he’s the one to avert his eyes from their weird little staring match; the way the other man blinks at him wordlessly is a little intimidating. This actions speaking louder that words thing Dan had going for him was going to take some getting use to. 

“You’re cheery today.” Is what Dan settles on. 

“I’m always cheery.” Too used to defending his own sunshine nature to Howard, the reply falls from him quickly. Dan’s mouth quirks in the tiniest of smiles and it might just be the biggest Victory of Vince's life so far - he hadn't even realised he'd been trying to provoke that exact response until he succeeded. 

It lasts long enough for him to glimpse it and then Dan turns and leaves the room. No explanation, no goodbye, just walks (limps) out. 

This is going to be a long day. 

***

Jones has no idea what to do in a shop. 

He had briefly entertained the idea of hiding upstairs in the flat all day, but he was reminded of Vince. Sitting on his bed and talking a mile a minute about his job. Eagerly regaling Jones with tales of their work life. The memory enough to convince him that secluding himself away was definitely not the kind of thing Vince would do if he were here right now. 

That being said, as soon as he makes his reappearance, Howard seems shocked he has bothered to return at all. “That was quick.” And if his tone wasn’t surprised enough about the timing then he sounds utterly astounded when he says, “Where’d you find that shirt? Haven’t seen you in that in years.”

The unsettling feeling that he may have made a misjudgment leaves Jones floundering. He perhaps should have pulled out the more outlandish clothes he’d spotted in the front of the jumble sale that Vince calls a wardrobe. 

In the wake of his silence, Howard’s brow creases, worry etched on his features. “You feelin’ alright, little man?” 

It catches him off guard a little; hearing a term of endearment so easily passed between them. It makes his chest squeeze. Leaves him flushing hot under the look that Howard is _still_ giving him. Like he’s worried Jones is about to keel over right before his eyes, as if preparing to rush over and catch him. Even when they’d been younger and closer than close, Dan hadn’t ever called him anything other than Jones. 

Vince clearly has a good thing going for him here. 

“No,” He rasps, brings his thumb up to his mouth to nibble on his cuticles anxiously. “No, I’m okay.” 

“Oh. Well." Howard nods his head in a soldierly fashion. "Good.”

Then silence. 

And so help him _god_ the way Howard looks at him (at _V_ _ince_ ) in that moment he thinks the pair of them must be blind. Or stupid. Or both.

It’s almost certainly both.

“Right then.” He chirps, glad he has so much practice being the cheerful half of his own duo. Filling silence is easy if you are as used to living in it as he happens to be. He sidles up to Howard behind the counter like it's something he's done his whole life. Peers down at the clipboard he's clutching in one big hand. “What you doing?” 

“Stock taking.” It's brilliant that he manages to put so much superiority in his tone when all he's doing is telling him what he's up to. It's quite endearing, actually, forces a smile onto his features. 

“Cool.” Jones beams up at him. “Need help?”

“Now I know you’ve gone wrong.” Howard says. Takes a step back as if to appraise him properly from head to toe. “Unless… Have you done something?” 

_You’ve no idea._ Jones thinks. “No!” He cries, mock outrage in his tone. "Maybe I just want to help.” 

"Vince, your idea of helping with the stock is to just move things around so they look more _'aesthetically pleasing'."_ " He even does the air quotes as he says it; trying his best to smother a grin under his moustache. 

Good god this man is precious. 

"I reckon it's a pretty important job, that, innit?" This was both a genuine question and playing into what he knew of Vince's cheeky nature. "If it looks pretty we'll get people in. No one's gonna buy anything from a shop that looks _boring._ " 

The grin beats the moustache and finally cracks free; one side of his mouth quirking upward first. "It doesn't look boring it looks organised, there's a difference." 

"There isn't a difference, Howard, I promise you that." Jones chuckles, reaching out with one hand and wiggling his fingers in silent demand. "C'mon, I really wanna help." 

Something like recognition crosses Howard’s face then. Closely followed by what, in some lights, reads as pity. “You don’t have to keep apologising you know, it’s water under the bridge.” 

Firstly, it's incredibly sad that Howard seems to think the only way Vince could possibly want to do something nice (like help in the shop) would be because he was apologising. He resolves to give that man a firm talking to after all of this. 

Secondly, if they were going with the analogy of these recurring little fights being water, then he doesn't think they're going under a bridge at all. Jones rather thinks both of these berks are taking this 'water' and pouring it into their respective mental containers. Hoarding the anger and annoyance and whatever other unspoken _feelings_ they have going on for one another. And one day it's all going to overflow; leaving behind a soggy mess of a relationship that will be even harder to clean up than it's going to be right now. 

Thirdly, Jones thinks about Vince. His misty eyes and pouted lips when he’d mumbled _“_ _Me an’ Howard haven’t been getting on that well lately.”_

And isn't this literally what he's doing here? To begin a difficult conversation about disagreements and potential fixes for them. He thinks he might have been landed with the easier half of the relationship equation - if he’s honest. So far Howard had proven to be nothing but pleasant (and perhaps a bit skittish) to talk to. 

Maybe beating around the bush was how these two had gotten into this mess in the first place; not enough good old fashioned blunt honesty. So he resolves to just be blunt.

“Howard, why do we fight all the time now?” 

It doesn't have the desired effect. Howard sputters, panics around his awkward - appears to misinterpret his intentions after a good few seconds to digest the question. His face shutters over in indignation. “Now look here, sir, if this is some sort of attempt at shifting the blame- It’s not my fault cleaning up is a foreign concept to you.” 

“No- No,” Jones takes a step forward, hand still outstretched but now with a different goal in mind. He intends to placate the other man but Howard backs himself out of reach with a snap of _“Don’t touch me,”_

Ah. Now Jones understands where the root of the problem really lays. Vince clearly isn’t the only emotionally stunted weirdo in this duo. There’s two of them. 

Not that he is in any position to comment on that front. Dan’s only remaining emotion is self loathing and Jones hasn't let himself feel properly sad in about a decade; prefers to get by on enough forced optimism to keep himself permanently cheery (other than a few rare instances, but everyone has bad days).

“It was a genuine question, Howard.” He says once enough time has passed that the awkward starts to dissipate around them. 

Howard continues to frown at him. Silence stretches on, Jones let's it happen; Howard will form words in his own time. It's starting to become clear that perhaps he might have to approach Howard with the same caution as one might approach a frightened animal. 

“You’re not taking the piss?” 

_Oh Vince, you silly bitch._

“No.” 

Howard doesn’t seem to know what to do with this information, but answering him is certainly not on the list. Jones thinks he hears a noise like ice cracking and Howard remains staring at him. It takes a second but he soon realises the man is frozen. Completely frozen. Jones waves his hand in front of his face. Clicks his fingers. Nothing. 

He sighs heavily. “I’ll make a cuppa.” 

***

Vince might break the rules a little. 

Dan has not made a reappearance since he'd buggered off all that time ago and Vince had been warned by the man himself that Jones' life mainly consisted of hanging about the flat. His hobbies (the ones Vince had managed to figure out by himself anyway) were all things he _couldn't do._ He certainly wasn't going to fiddle with scrap metal or old computer parts. And it's not like he could go an bother Dan with conversation like he normally would with Howard. 

Which quickly leads him to breaking the one rule that Jones had set him. 

_“Don’t touch my decks. I mean it. I'll know if you do."_

But in his defence - Vince was _so_ bored. 

His life was never this quiet; ever. If he wasn't in the shop then he was getting up to some sort of mystical mischief with his best friend. Even on days where _nothing_ happened then he was almost permanently in the company of Howard. Wedged on the sofa arguing over what to put on telly; or Vince would sit cross legged on the floor with his sewing machine and scrap fabric while Howard propped himself in the armchair with a large book. 

Existing in stillness like this? It would drive him _mad._

So maybe he ambles over to the equipment to at first just have a look. That of course is a gateway to touching; careful fingers brushing over sliders and dials. At that point he comes to the conclusion he has already broken the order on a technicality so he may as well throw caution the the wind and starts sorting through the mixed genres of records on the floor by his feet - searching for something that might catch his fancy. 

He wasn't completely fresh to using this kind of stuff; had DJed a handful of times before. He didn't exactly compose anything the same way Jones did, and he certainly wasn't claiming to be an absolute dab hand at it - but he sometimes played a set or two when the Velvet Onion required or another one of his connected venues was in dire need of someone. 

It takes no thought at all for him to slap something on the turntable and start messing around with the controls until he's got a looping remix of an Electro track that he really quite likes the sound of. It's a shame Howard wasn't here, they could perhaps make something of it if they put their minds to it. They really needed to put together some new sounds soonish, otherwise they may as well admit the band was done for good. 

He’s so lost in his creation, bobbing his head gently to the beat, that when he lifts his gaze long enough to spot Dan leaning casually against the wall; watching him with a small smirk, he nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Bloody hell!” He snaps, the music scratching to a halt where he stops it. Glares hard at the other man. “Do you _have_ to skulk about like that?” 

Dan is just staring at him. Something distantly amused lingering in his quirked mouth. Even his eyes are sparkling with mirth and another, unknown, emotion. There's a funny sensation in the pit of Vince's stomach in response, curling low and purring at him - whether it’s the eye contact or the fact the person giving it to him bears startling resemblance to Howard - he doesn’t know. He doesn't _want_ to know. 

“What you lookin' at?” He asks, growing agitated. Howard might be a grumpy shit but at least he’s verbal about it. All this silent and broody nonsense is already driving him up the wall, he has no idea how Jones lives with it all the time. 

“Never heard you play anything like that before,” Dan says, thoughtful. Vince finds he can’t say a single thing. He's not exactly a stranger to the feeling of butterflies but it's been a while since someone _new_ had given them to him. He fiddles anxiously with the dials on the decks. “It’s good.” And then he leaves - he has a habit of doing that, the lunatic - heads to the kitchen. 

Vince nearly swoons. 

When he scampers eagerly after him he tells himself it's definitely everything to do with the conversation he's supposed to be having with him and not the fact he is distantly very pleased about a version of his flatmate that's a bit... well. Rugged. 

What he finds in the kitchen makes him raise his eyebrows; it shouldn't though. There were enough clues laying about the flat and in the things Jones had said to him that, to be perfectly honest, he should have been expecting this exact picture when he rounds the corner. Dan is pouring neat vodka into a coffee mug - like that is a perfectly reasonable thing to be doing at midday. 

Vince drops a shoulder against the door frame and leans in the doorway, observing him. Jones only indicated he should stop the drinking if it was directly after him having taken medication. As far as he is aware that hasn't happened; so he settles for supervising rather than prevention. Dan scrubs one hand through his beard, turns and leans against the counter. He's dug a cigarette from his pocket and is in the process of trying to light it. The whole time his mouth has returned to it's default state; turned downwards dramatically. 

“Why you so frowny,” Vince says to break the silence. “All you’ve done today is frown.”

The cigarette is plucked from is mouth, replaced instead with a hearty mouthful of the vodka that makes his face scrunch with the burn of it. 

“It’s my look.” He answers after pause enough to swallow down his drink. Vince finds himself smirking in response. 

“What look?” He folds his arms over his chest. “Frustrated hobo?” The joke is received well enough, a half arsed snort of amusement that indicates to Vince that his level of humour is on par enough with Jones' that it won't require much acting on his part. 

“You decide what you’re gonna do about that party tonight then?” He refused to let them fall into _more_ quiet. Briefly spares a thought for Jones and if his entire role in this friendship was to make sure they had things to talk about, because so far it has mostly been Vince instigating conversation. It's only winding him up a _tiny bit_. 

Dan shrugs at him, flicks ash into an empty cup - do they not own ashtrays in this house? “Fancy it?” 

Vince blinks at him. “What, me?” 

“Yeah.” The rest of the vodka is swallowed in one mouthful. “You used to come to the ones at Sugarape all the time.” 

And Vince completely forgets for a second that he’s supposed to be a different person - a person who is in the know about all of this stuff, because he asks, “Used to?” 

Thankfully, Dan takes this to mean something different than Vince's slip up. Rather than _‘I’m an impostor who has no idea what you’re on about’_ he instead interprets it as _‘Exactly why is it I've not been invited to parties with you lately Dan, hmm?’._ Which is just as well. 

Dan, cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth, drags both palms over his face and lets them linger over his eyes to avoid having to look at Vince - certainly more effective than Howard’s darting gaze has ever been. “Fine. Don’t come.” 

And where his best friend would avoid a topic with clever conversational changes and strategic silence. Dan was outright shutting him down. 

He kind of liked it, this gruff nature. 

“Hang on.” Vince says, managing to find humour in prodding the bear. “I didn’t actually say yes or no.” 

Dan peeks out from between his fingers, drops his hands altogether with an exaggerated eye roll. Frowns at him; is it bad that Vince is already starting to get a good handle on just how many types of frown Dan has and what each one of them means? This one is impatience, he thinks. As if proving his point the man waves his hand in a gesture that says, _well?_

Vince just smirks. Shrugs his shoulders carelessly and says. “I’ll think about it.” He’d definitely have to get in contact with Jones first. They hadn't talked about public appearances as one another - that would arguably be a lot more complicated to pull off. 

The answer seems good enough for Dan, who, when Vince heads back through to the living room (his turn to walk out of a room with no explanation), follows on his heels. 

Vince returns to his role easily, makes a beeline for the decks. Dan settles on the sofa and pulls an aged laptop from the coffee table; opens it up as if to begin work. Vince just hovers, fiddles with the dials aimlessly. He wants to keep playing about with his music but is worried about disturbing Dan. 

That is, until the man looks up at him and says, “You playing or what?”


	4. I won't waste your time with my revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard and Dan remain oblivious, for now at least, but the boys might just be getting a bit too comfy with their new opposing halves.

In light of Howard’s freezing incident it becomes glaringly obvious to Jones that perhaps saying what was on your mind is not how Vince and Howard go about their business. And yet, in the same instance, they obviously have  _ some _ level of unspoken understanding about their relationship. A greater understanding than he has about his own relationship with Dan, that is for certain. 

Dan and he exist in a certain state of detachment from each other. Dan has his job, Jones had his own in a vastly different discipline. Socially, Dan operated in a different group to him; intellectuals and writers. Jones’ friends (though thin on the ground) were all the kind of Shoreditch trendies that Dan vocally disliked. Makes you wonder how he stands to be around Jones in the first place, really, doesn’t it? Personality wise they were almost polar opposites; Jones chatty and optimistic, Dan wasn’t. 

Without question he would still label them as friends; there was enough in common to ensure it. They lived together, and despite being of the talkative persuasion he had his moments of silence. They both liked music enough to share the odd discussion. They held disdain for the same topics - disingenuous bastards, for example - and their erratic and often self destructive behaviours meant they could exist in one another’s orbit where many others might struggle to tolerate them. 

And this was fine. It worked. Mostly. 

In some ways it didn’t work, and being around Howard he was perhaps learning  _ why.  _

For example, Jones knew he had a talent for talking without actually saying anything of substance. He had carefully constructed walls that even Dan struggled to get through after eight years of friendship. And Dan? Dan wasn’t talkative _at all_ so he made a point to never pry. Never ask questions. Never demonstrate any real want to _know._

Unless he was off his face. Ironically, when Dan was drunk he was a talker. Openly curious about the people around him. He was joyful and relaxed. It was perhaps why Jones found himself so weak for the attention; always willingly baring his soul only to find the next morning the conversations were blurry at the edges for the other man. If not forgotten completely. Swept under the rug and never mentioned. 

Sober Dan would take the bare necessities of information offered, at face value, and leave it at that - which is what Jones had wanted once over. 

He doesn’t want it anymore. 

It’s not even like he wants a sudden outpouring of deep and existential sharing. Doesn’t want Dan to ask why he only goes by Jones or why he’s never talks about his family. Eventually maybe, they could work to that. But mostly? Mostly, just to be asked how his day was would be nice. 

And don't get him wrong - Dan had his own language of affection. Otherwise why would Jones have stuck around for eight years? Dan was a shower rather than a teller. There were no qualms about contact between them; pre-window Dan never minded if Jones would climb all over him like an attention seeking toddler. Pillow his head on his shoulder and crash. He was forever reaching out and prodding at him just for fun. Physically? Jones had all the attention he could require but that wasn't really enough was it. Not when he still went day to day believing Dan didn't actually _know_ him and probably didn't want to either. 

If he really cared why hadn't he thought to ring him from the hospital? 

All of this comes to him in snatches the more time he spends with Howard. 

What he was coming to learn about Howard and Vince was that they took Jones’ ability to talk without saying anything and  _ ran with it _ . 

He’d taken his time making tea for them both, which to be honest was a bit of a stupid suggestion on his behalf (if he thought the bedroom was a disaster then the kitchen is a whole fresh kind of territory - he opens three cupboards before he finds a single teabag) considering he has no idea how Howard takes his tea and is going to have to fake his way through this interaction as well. And when he’d gotten back Howard was still in his frozen state. 

It should perhaps be incredibly concerning that his first instinct is to clap his hand to his cheek but it works. 

Howard’s whole body jerks free of the freeze, promptly sags onto the stool behind him with a sigh of, “Thanks.” 

“S’alright.” He slides the tea over to him, cradles his own close to his chest. After the ordeal of finding the tea bags he hadn’t bothered to look for Coffee. Not when the coffee pot he did find contained some glittery powdered substance rather than actual coffee; he decided the strange and fantastical life Vince leads must not involve traditional caffeinated beans and he didn’t want to try stewing the glitter. So tea it was. 

His fingers already itched for the nicotine he was having to give up for Vince’s image - adding his caffeine drink of choice to that list was going to be rough. 

“Naboo called this morning.” Howard says after swallowing down a mouthful of his milky beverage (which he hadn’t commented on - Jones must have gotten lucky). 

Which, as much as it should, really didn’t come as a surprise to him. Because he was now gathering that this is how they worked. Vince and Howard. Knowing the elephant is in the room (practically making eye contact with him, the big neon coloured, loud fucker, that he is) and yet refusing to acknowledge his existence. 

“Oh yeah?” Is all Jones can think to say to that statement. 

“He thinks he’ll be back around lunchtime, but Bollo is going to have to stay on a bit longer so we won’t see him until tomorrow morning.” 

Just like that whatever ball Jones had tried to get rolling was promptly caught and tossed right back up the hill by Howard. Fuck. 

Clearly he was going to have to re-evaluate his approach. Right now that means playing along as much as possible with this charade of Howard’s; the mime of being perfectly okay and not at all ruffled by his earlier questions. Bollo and Naboo - the other two housemates. The ‘shaman’ and the ‘gorilla’. Belatedly he realises he should have taken the time to ask Vince about these characters as well as Howard; it would certainly have been helpful to know where they’d been. Or literally anything else about them. 

What he settles on is a convincing. “That’s a shame.” Vince seems like the kind of person that has a best friend in everyone he meets - unashamedly enthusiastic and likable as he is. He’d certainly miss his own flatmates. 

“Mm.” Howard hums in half-hearted agreement (maybe not so much friendliness between Howard and the others then?) one eyebrow quirking up as he talks. “So if you wouldn’t mind replacing anything you’ve nicked? I don’t want to get it in the neck.” 

“I haven’t nicked anything,” Jones replies instantly; this before considering that he doesn’t actually know that for a fact. Though, his denial paints a smirk back onto Howard’s features and drags them out from under the weight of an awkward conversation. 

If in doubt, fall back on banter. He was learning. 

“And I suppose those enchanted earrings he specifically told you _ not _ to touch just crawled into your jewelry box of their own accord?” 

Jones can feel the gymnastics his face is going through in response.  _ Enchanted earrings.  _ Honestly, if nothing else, this venture into someone else’s life was teaching him that he was not paying enough attention to the world around him. It’s secrets hidden in plain sight. He manages to croak, “What were you doin' in my jewelry box?” 

Another thing he’s coming to understand, avoidance is this pair’s bread and butter. One diversion and you’re golden - whereas Jones was used to pestering Dan relentlessly about things (and often, if the circumstances were right, Dan could be equally as insufferable about latching onto something and refusing to let go). 

Howard averts his gaze guiltily. “Just… checking something.” 

“Checking somethin' on my side of the room?” He keeps his tone light, a small smile gracing his features. It’s like luring a startled animal trying to get Howard back into comfortable conversation. “Are you up to something?”

“I’m never up to anything, that’s your job.” Howard can try his hardest to look annoyed but Jones catches the way his eyes glint - jumps on it like an excited puppy. 

“Oh you are  _ definitely  _ up to something!” 

“You’re projecting your bad behaviour onto me, I won’t have it, sir.” 

That was certainly not how Vince had painted their partnership that was for sure, but he supposed from the inside there was a certain level of bias involved. If you had to ask Jones, though, which of them he thought was the troublemaker in this duo. He’d safely say they were  _ as bad as each other _ . 

He makes a point to roll his eyes with as much fondness as he dares (which is genuine enough in its intention). “I’m not projecting nothin’, we’re a team.” He whines. “Why you letting our team fall apart, Howard?” 

It’s the joke that breaks the moment. 

Inadvertently he has brought them back to the serious topic. Jones can almost physically see Howard retreating into himself with his anxiety. Sees those tiny brown eyes get dull as the joy is replaced by something else - all the things he wants so badly to say. 

Somewhere in his mind, Jones wonders what would have happened if he had said to hell with the plan and introduced himself properly when he arrived. Barged through the shop door with a cry of  _ “Wotcher, Howard, my name is Jones and I look exactly like your flatmate. But I’m not actually him so why don’t I help you dissect what’s got you both so wound up lately?” _

It would be so much easier to make him talk if he was an outsider; he thinks. Some people found it less daunting to talk to a stranger than the people they knew - because the unfamiliarity can be comforting. But as far as Howard was concerned, he wasn’t an outsider. He was the direct object of the problem and therefore he wonders how he’s supposed to make any sort of progress if Vince himself couldn’t seem to? 

The tactic he settles on for now is to remove himself from the situation; take some time to get his head on straight. 

As unused to the constant attention as he was, he was at risk of falling into the trap. The trap of Howard; the cheeky smile and comfortable aura that he’s composed of is doing wonders to make Jones weak willed. Right now he’s at great risk of exposing the plot just so he has an excuse to  _ really  _ talk to him. 

Somewhere secluded to think this over is going to be exactly what he needs. Stockroom it is. He scoops the clipboard from the surface of the counter, “I’ll nip out the back for a bit.” He says, Howard just watches him, mouth slightly parted and eyes pinched. 

Jones doesn’t let himself analyse that look. Just goes. 

***

There are some things about this arrangement Jones has with Dan that Vince is actually finding to be quite freeing. 

One of these things being that Vince has always been made of energy. He exists as the physical embodiment of sound and motion, wrapped in a layer of colour. The side to him that he lets everyone see was this being, this thing constantly in action. There were precious few people on the planet who had seen Vince’s off side, and as much as it may shock some to learn - being ‘on’ all the time can be a bit exhausting. 

Even within the confines of his own flat he could only power himself on empty headed sunshine for so long. Many times Howard has found him soaking in a hot bath until the water chills around him or clamping headphones over his ears so he can read his magazines with some semblance of isolation. 

Not that he’d ever want to be properly alone. Vince’s moods would swing into his dire need to switch himself off for a few hours and exist in a state of relaxation - but he still wanted to be in close proximity to Howard when he did it. Thankfully these moods weren’t all that common, he was definitely still 95% animation. 

Which meant the longer he spent in Dan’s company the more he realised if he didn’t particularly feel like being switched on then he would have the perfect excuse to recharge - so to speak. Let the silence they were existing in currently play a vital role in keeping himself sane. 

For now he was still charged up, though, currently skating by on that strange burst of liveliness you get after having not slept the night before. A crash is on the horizon, he feels, but not yet. 

A secondary revelation is that Dan didn’t mind Vince’s various ways of expelling his energy (presumably Jones must belong on a similar plane of existence to him that means this behaviour is expected). As he continues to experiment with the forbidden equipment he will utter little whispers of  _ “Genius!”  _ to himself. Bob his head. Bounce on his toes. Sway his hips to the chopped up melody of a Bowie song. 

Dan doesn’t blink an eye. 

It’s best that way, truthfully, because Vince was already going to struggle with the portion of this act that meant it was up to him to keep himself entertained; if he had been forced to exist as a contained kind of person permanently? He’d have called the whole thing off. 

It helps that Dan has chosen to remain in the room with him rather than disappear back to one of the other rooms, because Vince is so rarely without company in his own life that having another person in close proximity is an automatic comfort to him. Even if he doesn’t know the person. Even if that person has maybe said only ten words to him over the many hours of their acquaintance. 

But Vince isn’t just going to stew in annoyance over that - he’s here for a reason. He’s learning things about this friendship that are equally as interesting as they are concerning. 

Like yes, the large berk currently occupying the shabby sofa might be a silent type; but that does not equate to lack of attention. It’s just not really the kind of attention Vince is used to getting from his own large berk. 

Until this moment he’d never have clicked on, but it’s starting to become a bit obvious the more he stops worrying about himself and his needs and instead observing the things Dan is doing. 

When he thinks Vince isn’t looking, Dan sends him these looks. Mysterious and thoughtful ones, ones that contain humour at his antics, or ones that look (dare he say) a bit sad. He obviously takes as much comfort in having Jones in a room as Vince would take from having Howard nearby. It’s a familiarity thing, he thinks. When he stops typing to think he is subconsciously drumming his fingers in time with whatever is playing. Sometimes when the track changes, in that brief moment of silence, he will glance up as if checking on the well being of the man playing - as if worried the music stopping means something terrible. Dan has not even tried to hide the way he watches Vince’s body move as he dances to his own tunes. 

Once, Vince looked up and caught the man with his head dropped back against the sofa; eyes closed and a smirk on his face. 

He wonders if Jones is even aware of the impact he’s having. Remembers him uttering  _ “ _ _ Noticing things about me isn’t his main priority.” _ with a face like a kicked puppy. 

The second he heard it he’d known it was the biggest load of bollocks he’d ever heard but by god. Vince believes a lot - look at his life - but he refuses to believe Jones would miss this obvious draw he has to Dan. 

It might be a silent kind of codependency, but it’s there. 

And to top it all off it is perhaps throwing light on just how dependent he is on Howard. They’re not completely blind, you don’t go through life with people referring to you as a couple (and literally spending most of your waking hours together) without realising your relationship is perhaps a tad interconnected. But it’s amazing what they’ve managed to spend years talking around. Acknowledging in purely humorous tones and never once trying to clarify it as something serious. 

They didn’t do serious. 

He was dependent on Howard’s company and conversation because it was light and comedic, a separate kind of reality from what Jones appeared to live in. They’d make conversation about anything. Always. Hula Hoops, clothes, musical genres, ghosts. You name it, Howard and Vince could talk about it. 

The comparisons were at least a tad fascinating. Howard and himself, constantly chatting but never really deciphering the subtext. Jones and Dan, practically  _ drowning  _ in their subtext, but no chatter to define it. 

This existence was companionable but Vince had never felt so far away from a person who was sitting in the same room - it makes him understand why Jones might need a change. 

And if he can teach Dan about verbalising his thoughts then he’d be doing them both a favour. 

The track he is currently playing gets left on a low volume while Vince finds himself busy with a Barbie doll (it’s hair chopped and styled seemingly at random) that must be a mid-project for Jones - the poor girl has a horrific half-finished dye job going on. He adds this doll obsession to his list of things he is learning about his doppelganger. 

Briefly he considers if it is at all worth trying to scrape a meal together from whatever resides in Jones’ kitchen. Probably not, from what he’d discovered on his earlier search of the premises, none of the people that lived here were cooks. They seemed to live off ready meals, caffeine and sugar. Though, he had spotted some Nutella in there, maybe he could go at that with a spoon. He certainly did at home (no matter how Howard griped at him for it). 

Whatever the case he’d have to eat soon, he was starving. 

That’s when he gets the feeling. His skin prickles in a way that is becoming commonplace the more time he spends here. Goosebumps on his flesh. The feeling of being watched. All it takes is for him to turn his head and he catches Dan in the act; unabashed how he stares at him. 

This look isn’t the same as the other’s he has so far seen today. This one makes him flush pink. 

“Can I help you?” He asks, more amusement to his tone than annoyance but still. Dan just shrugs at him, goes back to his laptop. But Vince won’t stand for it. Time to teach this man a lesson in communication. “You can’t just stare at a bloke and then not say why, it’s pervy.” 

“Really?” Dan wrinkles his nose, doesn’t even look up from his writing as he spreads his sarcasm about the room. “But that’s my whole angle.”

“Being pervy?” 

This time Dan does look at him. It’s a slow thing. A calculated drag of his gaze like it’s the largest inconvenience in the world to have to look at the person he’s talking to. Once their eyes lock he makes a show of arching one eyebrow at him; like it should be sinfully obvious that being pervy is  _ exactly  _ his whole angle. 

Vince flounders - he isn’t sure what to do with a look like that besides break their eye contact. 

Honestly, he isn’t sure if that was a game of chicken he just lost, or if there is yet another piece of this puzzle he hasn’t been told about. Something laying beneath the surface. 

Either way Vince has to bounce back quickly. He’s never going to get anywhere if he keeps letting himself get flustered by this man. Before he can think the act through he has crossed the room and bundled himself onto the sofa beside Dan, peering around his screen to get a better look. “What you writin', anyway, you’ve got a concentration face on.” 

It’s snapped shut before he can decipher any of the writings. “Nothing.” 

Vince barks a laugh and him. “Oh yeah, cause people usually hide it when it’s nothing.” He reaches for the laptop with one hand, the other bracing itself on the back of the sofa. “C’mon what was it? Was it filthy?” 

“You’re in a right mood today.” Dan huffs, but there’s a slight upward lilt to his tone that Vince thinks might be his version of amusement. He holds the laptop out of Vince’s reach easily - and then he plants one hand in the centre of his chest to hold him back. “How many coffees have you had?” 

So many things begin to scramble about in Vince’s brain all at once, the ideas chasing each other around and around for long enough that Dan does that thing with his face again - the squinted eyes and down turned mouth that speak to his suspicion. 

Dan’s touching him. Really it doesn’t mean anything, even Howard the  _ don’t touch me  _ man would often instigate contact on his own terms all the time. Something about Dan doing it though, had left Vince’s throat a little dry. He’d never yet stopped to consider if both men would share the same rule about their personal space. It is probably incredibly wrong how much he wants to test that boundary. 

“Are you literally shutting down from caffeine overexposure as we speak?” Dan asks, snaps Vince back to the matter at hand. 

Caffeine and Jones together explains  _ a lot _ . Why there were almost three jars of this one particular fancy brand of coffee stacked in their kitchen cupboards when the outward appearance of the flat was that they couldn’t afford them. Why three adults managed to all share one bedroom, probably because one of those adults rarely used it. Jones didn’t sleep - an addict to caffeine. 

It’s amazing what kind of things you can learn about someone based on what other people say about them. 

No one really drank coffee in their house, the poor bastard. 

“Not as many as you’d think.” He replies. When lying, Vague answers work better than specific ones, Vince had learnt- people fill in the blanks themselves often enough. It should perhaps sadden him how good he’d gotten at doing that; once over he’d never been able to lie, stuttered over his words and went red in the face. Way back when. 

“Meaning more than five but less than ten.” Dan snorts, and Vince finds himself pulling his lip between his teeth to prevent his own smirk from forming. 

“I’m being good today.” 

“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” And if Dan could stop sounding like he was  _ flirting  _ with him for five minutes, that would be just perfect. Because it’s getting really hard to convince himself not to reciprocate. 

As if in retaliation, Vince reaches for the laptop again, and this time Dan curls the hand on his chest into a fist; drags Vince down to his side by his shirt and tucks his arm around him as if to hold him still. “You know you’re insufferable after coffee number four, you should have stopped there.” 

Well, one thing is for certain, Dan has  _ no problem  _ with contact. 

Vince is left reeling. The way Dan settles beside him is indicative of this kind of behaviour being normal. His arm rests confidently around his body; there’s no tension in his being at all as he lets the younger man come to settle against him. Which perhaps only highlights his earlier point. 

There is plenty of attention in this duo - but where Jones apparently feels lacking is a connection. Knowing one another past this undisguised affection. 

It’s one thing to be comfortable enough with one another to have contact like this; but if Jones still believes Dan doesn’t know anything about him (nor care) then they are severely lacking in the communication department. 

Is it perhaps slightly worrying the first thing Vince thought was that he wished Howard would behave like this with him so easily? Probably yes. 

Because look - Vince  _ knows  _ Howard understands him better than anyone. He knows Howard cares about him; deeply, perhaps he even knows it is more than a platonic emotion. But he’s on the other end of the spectrum to his double. He wishes Howard would  _ show  _ it more. 

What a pair they make. 

“Don’t crash on me now, I have work to do.” 

Vince realises he’d let himself settle into the other man too much. Closed his eyes and relaxed into the unfamiliar feeling of being held. He was straying into dangerous territory. 

“ _ As if _ you were working,” He huffs, tilts his head back to gaze up at Dan. “You were up to shady activities, you were.” 

“I don’t do shady.” Dan says, looks down at him. “Sordid, maybe. But not shady.” 

Vince sticks his lip out in a pout as if it will stop him being moved and it’s that which draws Dan’s eye. 

He’s good at reading a room. Picking up on the ways people look at you is a useful skill when you’re someone like Vince, even if half the people that do the looking are transparent as a window, it helps him play to an audience better. So he knows exactly what he’s seeing when those shrew eyes darken considerably and then dart away again in a much too guilty fashion. 

It forces him to his feet, disentangling himself awkwardly from the other man.

There is  _ so much more _ than just a broken friendship going on here. 

“I’m going for a shower.” He says, as cheery as you like, moves to turn the music off but before he can Dan stops him with a soft  _ “Don’t.”  _

“I like it,” He explains when Vince casts him a frown - and he honestly can't find it in himself to deny him. 

The dull hum of music follows him all the way to the bathroom. 

***

Aside from some of his less than ideal life circumstances, Jones quite likes to believe he is wholly unextraordinary. He likes it that way, in fact. At a certain point one comes to crave normalcy and Jones had managed to achieve that; being run of the mill was arguably one of his greatest successes. 

He certainly doesn’t live on the level of surreal absurdism that Vince does. Which is going to be a point for adjustment for sure. 

Though, it appears nothing helps introspection more than pretending to be someone else. Jones is perhaps coming to the conclusion he is not as uninteresting as he claims to be.

Like he hadn’t realised how much he struggled to keep his mind in order without the help of stimulants; large doses of caffeine and regular bursts of nicotine. Or how the disarray of his life in it’s own way was a kind of routine he felt uncomfortable to be away from - and by that he meant he had no routine whatsoever except the repetitive pattern of work and making music. Even his other hobbies he already missed; his endless need to understand how the world around him worked by pulling things apart and putting them back together again. Jones didn’t have a proper education but he could rebuild a computer from scraps if he found the right parts - and he did that for  _ fun.  _

Probably for the same reason he’d paint on his own clothes and bring home abandoned barbie dolls to redesign. He just likes to  _ make. _ It’s not like he ever did anything with any of the things he produced; they got stored or repurposed or left lying about. If they could be used for his music he’d happily figure out a way to do that but mostly it was for the pure purpose of channeling his erratic energy into productivity. 

Until he has spent a decent amount of time hidden in the safe confines of the stockroom, he didn’t even realise how much he needed silence. How it helped to soothe his frazzled nerves almost as well as the sound of his own music blasting on full volume through his aged headphones did. It didn’t have the same immediate effect as the noise did; he purposefully carried headphones around everywhere he went to drown out the noise of the world. But needs must, and silence was proving helpful. 

It doesn’t bother him one bit that he hears the bell above the door go a few times, signalling customers coming and going, frankly he feels blessed to have missed them. He can hear the low rumble of Howard’s voice and it sounds as if the patrons seem to divert themselves away once they realise who is going to be serving them. It’s not the first time Jones has thought  _ “Poor Howard,”  _ and it likely won’t be the last. 

This strange world Vince lives in seems set against the poor bugger and Jones wants nothing more than to dig him free of it. He’s only known him half a day and his heart  _ bleeds  _ for him. As much as Vince had gushed about him, he had assumed that since he shared a face with Dan it was entirely probable he’d share the same fractured soul. He doesn’t. Not even close. There’s a slightly bleak side to him in comparison to the other half of his duo but he is by far a less jaded man than Ashcroft is. 

Howard is a teddy bear. 

Which is why he uses this time to plot his next move. The first step is going to be making sure Howard is in a comfortable environment - so not the shop. He probably has enough sense of proprietary that professionalism was important to him. It was an excuse he could use to not talk; if they were in the flat he would have one less avoidance tactic. He also thinks that springing it on him will not work, it has to be slipped in carefully, surrounded by the gentle padding of familiarity. Over dinner perhaps, after a day of lulling him into a sense of security. 

Coax it from him carefully. 

After over an hour of this planning is when he hears the bell go again, and he briefly considers perhaps emerging. Surely this was playing with fire, secluding himself like this as if he were throwing a tantrum. The thought is ended by a voice lisping, “Where’s Vince?” 

Fuck. 

Jones tosses aside the trinket he had been fiddling with; a doll of some kind that looked handmade from old scraps of fabric) and shoots to his feet from where he's been sat cross legged on the floor. Conflicted, he hovers anxiously by the door. Unsure if he should pop his head out or remain hidden. It’s almost certainly one of the other flatmates. 

Before he can make the decision for himself Howard replies, tone soaked in his obvious disbelief. “He’s in the stock room.” 

Well eavesdropping might not be becoming but it was going to teach him something for sure; he presses himself up against the door, one ear to the wood. 

There’s silence. Then an equally shocked; “You what?”

“Yeah. I know.” 

“He feeling alright?” 

“Not sure, he’s been a bit strange all day.” And that was a bit unfair. All things considered Jones though he had been doing a brilliant job of imitating Vince - maybe he needed a second look at his behaviour on that front too. 

“Well you did kick him out last night.” The other flatmate says. Naboo? It was a strange enough name that was hard to forget but he forgets which one Howard had indicated would return first. 

“Will people stop saying that, no I didn’t.” Even from a room away Jones can feel Howard’s annoyance. 

“Might has well have.” The voice sounds amused. “You know he doesn’t like it when you nag him.” 

“Would you prefer I let him make a mess all over the flat?” 

“Well..” There’s another one of those pauses, Jones thinks it might be the man making a face at Howard. “You’d clean it anyway so does it make much of a difference?” 

Both Howard and Jones tut over that; he’s familiar with that sentiment, It having been expressed in his own house once or twice. Dan lamenting  _ “Does it matter if I leave my clothes all over the bedroom floor? You always pick them up.” _

“Look will you just have a word?” Howard is pleading, pitch low and ashamed. Jones knocks his head against the door, winces on his behalf. 

“Why me?” 

“Well you know what he’s like lately. Were-” 

“Going through a rough patch?” And it would be nice if the other man would sound a little sympathetic but he doesn’t. It’s all barely concealed amusement. Jones can hear his smirk. “Yeah alright, I’ll see what’s up with him.” 

Before Jones has the time to decipher the gentle pad of footsteps coming in his direction (they’re soft, like a puma) the door he’s pressed against is yanked open and he has to force his gaze downwards to the little blue-clad man who is gazing at him with such utter confusion Jones thinks he’s already cocked this act up for himself. 

“Uh,” Jones gapes at him _.  _ “Alright?” He says, attempts a casual grin. 

In the blink of an eye the confusion has shuttered over into fury (well, it’s anger, every expression this man pulls is diluted like he struggles to make any real commitment to emotion). He advances, Jones automatically takes three quick steps back until his back hits a shelf and the small man has snapped the door shut behind them. 

The pair of them are trapped together, and where before, the silence had been a comfort to Jones, it was now smothering him. What he wouldn’t give for some noise about now. Deafening. 

“Who the hell are you?” The tiny man snaps. 

“Uh,” 

“If you say Vince I’ll curse you,” He says, calm as ever. Which only makes the threat more intimidating, in his opinion. 

Call him terrified. 

Jones swallows thickly. Darts his eyes around the stockroom. He can’t see this ending well for him either way, whether he lies or tells the truth. “I’m a friend.” He swears, hopes he says it sincerely enough to be believed. “I’m not trying to cause trouble, I promise.” 

The man observes him, but he hasn’t completely dismissed him. He does that for almost a minute. Just looks at him with a firm downturn to his mouth and his brows furrowed. Then all at one his features smooth out and he sighs like this is something that happens every other week. “Was this his idea?” 

Jones can only nod. 

An eye roll this time; as if he wasn’t dealing with doppelgangers but rather a misbehaving puppy. “You better start at the beginning then.” 

He sputters out an explanation like a kid caught out in a lie, desperate apologies and panicked guilt spilling from him in a rush. He explains how they met, and how it was all Vince’s idea and he’s only going along with it (sorry Vince), finally reiterates one more time he isn’t here to cause trouble just to help out a mate with his flatmate problem. 

Naboo considers him. “You know what, this is the kind of stuff I never had to deal with on my planet. You can fix this mess yourselves, keep me out of it.” He turns as if to storm from the room but Jones thinks better than to let him leave; reaches out with grasping fingers and tugs at his electric blue sleeves. 

“Wait,” He pleads, and to his credit Naboo does. Raises one brow in silent query. “What gave me away?” He certainly needed to correct it before Howard caught on to the same problem. 

Something about his tone softens the man. His shoulders sag with the deep breath he expels. “You’re sharper than Vince.” Never mind the fact he has no idea what that means, Jones isn’t sure that’s the kind of thing he could erase from himself. Thankfully, the man elaborates. “I only noticed because I am a talented Shaman with a gift for perception. Howard’s an idiot, he won’t click on like that.” 

A relieved smile finds its way on his face. “Oh thank god. Thanks.” 

“But a word to the wise? Vince doesn’t actually work, if you get my drift. He’s practically stock at this point." Is that fondness in his tone? It was really hard to tell. "If you wanna go undetected, you have to stop trying so hard.” 

There’s not a chance to argue that point; mostly because is there any real point in trying? Naboo knows Vince better than Jones does (though arguably not as well as Howard) and if he insists he is trying too hard then it is almost certain that is what’s going on. Okay, that helps, at least. Try less. 

“You’ve managed to put yourself right in the middle of London’s two biggest idiots.” Naboo adds. “Good luck.” And then he’s gone. Quiet feet carrying him from the room and leaving Jones alone with that statement. 

***

Another perk to not living in each other's pockets all of the time? 

Vince manages to have an exceptionally long shower without  _ once  _ having someone knock on the door to tell him to hurry up. 

All three of his flatmates were more than aware of his tendency to take a long and luxurious shower, but did that stop them trying to shorten this process? No. Of course not. At least Bollo and Naboo were less likely to bother; though there was an incident that the little Shaman decided it was appropriate to charm himself into sounding like Gary Numan and calling for him (he’d nearly broke his neck hurrying from under the spray of water) so he could lock Vince out and run himself a bath. Twat. 

Howard though? Vince doesn’t think he’s ever had a shower as long as he has lived with the man without him coming along and rapping his knuckles against the closed door - calling for him for an imaginative range of reasons. Often it was just because he wanted the loo, but sometimes it was a case of  _ “Vince have you moved my moustache comb?”  _ or  _ “Have you seen my beige cardigan?”.  _ All queries that could definitely wait until he was finished. 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t do it too, though. He’d lost count of the amount of times he’d push into their bathroom while Howard was bathing because he had strict night time routines and his skin dried out without his moisturizers. 

They’d never really had a sense of shame when it came to each other. Not in the places they really should. 

But Dan clearly has no intention of bothering him. 

He savors it. Spends plenty of time lathering shampoo into his hair (it’s not his preferred brand but it will have to do for now) and scrubbing body wash into his skin. It’s a fun little game to investigate the array of products and try and guess who they belong to. One thing that is clear to him - Jones does not take his self care as seriously as Vince does. Which should have perhaps been obvious to him given that the man apparently doesn’t sleep, eat, or exist outside of the music he makes. 

Vince might be a tad self involved but at least he never neglects himself to extremes like these. 

It’s also worth noting that Jones isn’t the only one to operate on a continuous cycle of selective self care. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Dan might have a bit of a dependence on alcohol - and Vince hadn’t seen him eat a single thing yet today. Obviously as long as he remained functioning anything past that was easily forgettable. 

Jones said he’d jumped out a window. He didn’t necessarily seem suicidal to Vince but then, it’s not like he’d know how to tell if someone  _ was.  _ Is it something he should be keeping an eye on? Who knew. 

It is startlingly obvious, though, the more he learns about this pair, that he has perhaps managed to wedge himself in between two people who’s failing friendship problem was only the tip of the iceberg. Doesn’t mean he’s going to give up on them, though. 

If anything he thinks he is uniquely situated to help. The world has never seen positivity like it manifests in Vince. If he can inject even an ounce of that into Dan and Jones then he will consider himself successful. 

Shutting the water off, Vince wraps himself in a towel that is much too fluffy for it to have been brought here by either of the men; surmises it must be Claire’s. His reflection catches him off guard a little with his fresh new haircut, and he beams at himself as he combs it carefully. 

He’s going to have to talk to Dan soon. Thus far he hasn’t even tried, too wrapped up in his obsession with learning more about the doubles than taking any effort to help. There was still time, they weren’t going to make a decision about continuing until six and it was only ticking over to three now. As soon as he gets free from the bathroom and redressed he thinks he can make an attempt. 

Never say Vince didn’t know what he was doing; he had been gathering intel, that’s all. Now he could make a tactical approach. 

All his intel didn’t stop him from feeling like there were still gaping holes in his knowledge, though. 

Something hidden in the fractured pieces of information and catalogued looks. The easy contact they seemed to share but inability to hold meaningful conversation. It was like staring at an evidence board, a bundle of red string in his hand but no way of knowing how to connect it all. 

Vince pulls Jones’ jeans back on, but folds the crumpled t-shirt in his hands as he re-enters the hallway and makes his way straight into the bedroom. A change of clothes would probably be nice by now too, something a bit more his style if he can search it out. 

He doesn’t get a chance - he finds Dan rooting through the dresser with a kind of urgency he hadn’t yet seen him exhibit. Vince so far knew Dan as a lethargic creature; this was bordering on frantic. 

“You alright?” He asks, making Dan snap his attention to him. 

For a man who so far has not resembled Howard in any way other than facially, he suddenly looks a bit awkward where he stands, and his face does this thing - pulls tight and Vince remembers the crude imitation of it on Jones’ face. “Is it your leg?” 

Shifty eyes dart from the drawer to Vince and back again; he nods his head. Vince doesn’t believe him.

He has the same lying face as Howard does, meaning not subtle at all. Like the guilt of the fib is already swallowing him up before he’s even committed to it. 

Vince initially thought to leave it, he would with Howard, but he gets flashes of when he met Jones. Planted feet and curled fists. Body vibrating with rough, primal, energy. Does he really think Jones would let him get away with it? Probably not. 

“What you doin’ in my underwear drawer then?” 

Dan flounders as much as it is possible for a man like him to do so, which means his lips part before he has fully formed a response; his tiny eyes darting about the room. Then a moment later the lie comes, “Couldn’t remember where you’d put them. My meds, I mean.” 

Vince narrows his eyes at him. Distantly thanks himself for his earlier investigations because it means he can strut confidently to the bedside table and produce a bottle of pills from the drawer. Holds them up clearly. “ _ Why  _ would I put them in there, Dan?” 

Apparently, Dan’s other tacit for avoiding answering uncomfortable questions is to just revert to stubborn silence. Coupled with a healthy glare. 

Vince points to the bed with all the authority he remembers Jones giving him just twelve hours ago, and like he expected, Dan goes. 

He makes a mental note to get Howard this well trained when he gets home. 

“You know you can’t drink when you've had ‘em.” He says, rattling the bottle. Vince didn’t make a habit of knowing about prescription medication (wasn’t sure he’d be able to piece the word Oxycodone together out loud if he tried) but the amount of little black writing on the back and Jones’ hastily scribbled notes definitely sold it as a seriously strong drug. “Sure you wanna face this party later without your crutch?” 

“It’s not a crutch.” Dan grumbles, but there is little to no conviction behind the words. “They normally wear off, anyway, I’ll be fine by the time we leave.” 

Vince pauses in his process of uncapping the bottle in order to drop two pills into Dan’s waiting palm. He can’t help himself but to smirk openly at him (there goes his tough guy act). “We?” 

Dan’s eyes are smiling back but his mouth isn’t. “I assumed you’d end up coming.” 

“Shouldn’t make assumptions. Maybe I’m busy.” 

There’s no further comment, Dan too busy rolling his eyes as he swallows the pills down dry - he really shouldn’t do that. All Vince’s instructions involved a full glass of water and some food to stop them upsetting his stomach. Dan didn’t seem to care though. 

“I’ll see how I feel after I’ve slept some.” He says, moving the topic on swiftly. 

“Crashing already?” One shoulder lifts and drops again, shrugging away the question as he replaces the drugs where he’d found them. Dan actually manages a chuckle at him. “You’re getting old.” 

“Shove off!” Vince tosses his abandoned shirt at him. “I don’t age.” 

“You can say that again.” Dan’s voice has taken on a wistful edge. A barely there whisper, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor by his feet. “Don’t think you’ve changed since I’ve known you.” 

It’s the closest thing to a  _ real  _ conversation he’s heard from him since being here and it sets his heart beating rapidly in anxious anticipation of what he’s going to say. The words all scrambling about, unsure where to start, what will be the best approach. 

Meanwhile Dan teases, “Still fucking annoying.” 

And alright, that’s an in. 

He leaves a pause long enough before he asks. “Do you really think I’m annoying, Dan?” Vince can play Howard like a fiddle when he uses this voice. The vulnerable one. Pitched low and breathy, big wide eyes and anxious fingers to boot. He tries not to use it unless he’s sincere. Unless he’s asking,  _ “Howard, do you think it’s gonna be alright?”.  _ Because it usually makes Howard melt like warm butter. 

It appears to have the same effect on Dan. 

His previously humour filled gaze gives way to soft concern, that eye contact he has yet to get used to was intense in its sincerity. “No. Of course not.” 

“Good.” He replies. The air around them thick with something indescribable. “Just checking, I’m never really sure, you know… If I’m pissing you off. Or if you like me.” 

The sentiment startles Dan, as Vince had expected it to, considering these two almost never said anything as plain as that to one another. What he’s expecting even less it seems is Vince sliding into the space beside him, sitting with their shoulders brushing. 

Anything he was going to add dies in his throat soon after. Now the ball was rolling it was going to be a case of keeping it going. Maybe he could have this whole discussion by six o’clock if he found the right words. 

But for whatever reason Dan took that exact moment to realise Vince was not only in close proximity to him but still  _ shirtless.  _

That dark gaze is dragging from his torso when Vince turns to catch his gaze, and when it does finally flick to his face it’s completely shuttered over. His own perceived wrong doing making him retreat into himself once more. 

And he does what he does best - he leaves. Silently removes himself from the room without another word. 

That was lust if he’d ever seen it. Consuming and ferocious. Intense.  __

“Fuck.” Vince curses; surprise and panic and guilt (and only a tiny bit of self-satisfaction) mixing in his stomach. He drags his hands roughly through his hair. “Fucking hell what have I got myself into.” 

***

It’s ticking closer to their agreed time of communication and Jones  _ still  _ hasn’t bothered to enact his plan of talking to Howard. 

And perhaps, a little guiltily, that’s because he is genuinely just enjoying the man’s company. 

After Naboo had skulked off, Jones left the stockroom, and Howard, eyeing him suspiciously - which he now knows is all to do with his willingness to help - had asked him if he was alright. At which point Jones shrugged and muttered,  _ “To be honest I was just sat there sorting my hair out.” _

By the look of it, it was exactly the right thing to say, because Howard had laughed airy and relieved, like he was glad to find that Vince was still himself. 

Maybe Naboo was right, he was trying too hard. 

So he doesn’t anymore. He does his best to blend in by not drawing attention to himself, allows Howard to unconsciously dictate how the rest of their day in the shop will pass. Jones got better at pretending he didn’t want to be working, and used this to observe and learn about Howard and who he was as a person behind what Vince had told him. 

One instance saw him fiddling with what looked like a stationery collection; Jones watching him from behind the counter with unfiltered fascination. He was sorting through a stack of post it notes, tapping gentle fingers to the back of them to test how sticky their adhesive was. It was hands down one of the strangest things he’d ever seen but honestly, he was intrigued. He liked knowing how things worked too; wasn’t smart in many areas, had no real education to speak of, but things like this? He was all about it. 

It had taken everything in him not to go over and help discover which was most sticky and instead remain detached in his interest. “What you doing?” 

“Post-it Palace needed revamping.” Howard answers without even looking up at him. 

Jones takes a solid three minutes to process what he’s just heard. “ _ Post-it Palace?”  _

Now the other man looks at him, one eyebrow quirked as if challenging him to say something about it. Jones doesn’t, just shakes his head at him like he was an idiot when in his head he was screaming  _ Good lord you are so fucking cute it’s painful, no wonder Vince is in love with you.  _

Though, even now that he had forced himself to relax into the role a bit more, he still found himself preening and flustered under all the attention. 

“What made you do that, then?” Howard asks over a cup of tea much later in the day. They sit shoulder to shoulder behind the counter. Doesn’t get a whole lot of customers at this shop, but Jones prefers it that way. “Cut your hair?” 

Jones who is infinitely grateful Vince apparently takes his tea as liquid sugar, just shrugs one shoulder carefully and blurts an answer without the burden of overthinking it. “Fancied a change.” Is what comes out of his mouth. 

Howard tuts at him. “You mean you got drunk." It is obviously supposed to be an attempt at berating him but it lands more in the arena of humour than scolding. 

"Only a bit." 

"You shouldn't drink so much when you go out.” Jones could laugh at how often he’s been the one saying that to his own friend. The pitch of concern almost exactly the same but for the accent. “Did you have fun though?” 

God is this what actual friendships were like? Because he knew the way he and Dan operated was just this side of unhealthy - but they’d never really thought to do anything about it until now. “Yeah. Yeah it was a right laugh.” 

“Good.” Howard smiles softly at him, then, he fidgets a little anxiously. Like he knows what he wants to say but is afraid of the backlash of saying it. 

In the end he must divert himself enough from the question because what does come out of his mouth is; "I like it. Your hair. Like what you had at the zoo a bit." 

The photograph comes back to him. Vince's words in the smoking area of a club what felt like years ago. "I sometimes think about going blonde again." He says. 

"Really?" And Howard sounds almost as shocked as he had upon realising Jones wanted to help him work. "I always thought..." 

He doesn't finish that thought. Not until Jones presses. "Thought what?" 

"That you hated it?" He averts his gaze; cheeks flushed as he talks. "I don't know. You seemed in a hurry to dye it once we left and you've always kept it that way since." 

Sadly, they have strayed into conversation that without more information, or 'trying too hard' Jones can't think up a reasonable response. Vince (understandably) didn't think to give him a run down of their entire history. Because the chances of it coming up were surely slim. So he seals the end of that discussion with a shrug.

There's barely any time for silence though. Howard's already moving on. “I was thinking of a curry for dinner tonight,” And Jones bobs his head in a nod. 

The rest of their shift flies over.

By the time it hits closing time, Jones has gotten so used to the comfortable sense of ease Howard inspires in him that he is eagerly winding him up. Giggling at him, teasing him, even and it becomes second nature when he stops overthinking it. Howard moves to lock the door while Jones is regaling him with a story (a true one, that happened to him, but he plays it off as something that happened to Vince the night before) when the phone in his pocket rings. 

Howard’s face falls immediately; obviously equates that sound as something that takes Vince’s attention away from him. 

Then he says, “Changed your ringtone?” 

“Uh, yeah.” Jones says, and he’s so busy wondering what to do he let’s it ring out. “I’ll see you upstairs yeah?” 

As he moves to the stairs he thinks he hears Howard mutter ‘ _ Yeah, wouldn’t want the adoring fans to go without attention for too long’  _

***

Annoyingly, when Vince tries to call Jones, he doesn’t answer. 

Granted there is probably a logical explanation for this; but he is about to curse him out for his tardiness regardless when the phone in his hands starts to ring with it’s own Electro tune and he’s quick to answer it. 

“Sorry,” Jones says by way of a greeting. “Figured I should leave the room before answering.” 

Oh. Well that makes perfect sense. “How’s Howard?” He asks instead of his own greeting, twisting a lock of hair in his fingers. 

“Uh, fine. I think.” Jones sounds like he’s frowning. “Thanks for the heads up on you shaman flatmate though, the little bastard figured me out as soon as he saw me.” 

Vince’s heart jumps into his throat. “Naboo? What did he say? Is he mad.” 

“I don’t know it’s hard to tell when he’s so-” 

“High?” 

“I was gonna say ‘passive’ but yeah, I suppose they go hand in hand.” Jones pauses. Shifts like he’s shrugging. “He isn’t going to rat on us though. Said we needed to sort this out ourselves.” 

And Nboo would mean it too, it's comfort enough to let go of the breath he'd been holding. “Well that’s good.” 

“What about Dan?” Jones asks, there's an edge to his tone and he wonders if he should mention some of the things he’s noticed. How Dan looks at him. Ask why he’d be searching through Jones’ sock drawers and giving him shifty eyes. 

What he says instead is, “He invited me to a party tonight.” 

This seems to shock Jones more than any other information might have; he chokes out a, “He what?” 

“Some Pilot launch.” 

“Oh shit, that was today.” Jones sounds so utterly disappointed in himself for forgetting it makes Vince’s heart ache. “What did you say?” 

“I said I’d have to think about it.” Vince says. “Didn’t know if you’d want to swap back before or if you’d even want me pretendin' to be you in front of all your mates.” 

“They’re- they’re not really my mates. Or Dan’s actually. Just sort of… people we know.” 

Vince frowns down the phone, he was so used to being surrounded by people (even the false imitations of friends he called his Camden Elite) that the idea of someone not really having anyone was quite sad to him. “Oh, well, easier to pull off then.” 

Jones laughs. “Yeah,” 

They sit like that, just listening to each other breathing and then Jones clears his throat. “I think we should give it another few days.” He says. “I’m gettin' somewhere with Howard.” 

All at once he feels overjoyed - and the immediately guilty, because he couldn't even get Dan to remain in the room with him and here was Jones being the perfect doppelganger and doing his duty. “Really?” 

“Yeah he’s…” Jones is the one struggling for words now. He wonders what had happened between them to inspire that. “He’s nice.” Is what he settles on. 

“Yeah,” Vince can't contain his grin, like it was indirectly a compliment to him. “Yeah, he is.” 

“He really likes you, you know.” The comment makes his cheeks flush; mainly because he also want's to say, _I know_. “He might just be in the same boat as you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just... he gets this look on his face sometimes like he wants to say somethin' but-” 

“But he never says it.” Vince nods his head, more than aware of that look. “Drives me up the wall. Always just talks about something else,” 

“You must be living it up with Dan then.” 

“Yeah- I really thought you might be over exaggerating the silent thing.” Vince laughs, picks absently at the bed sheets he’s sitting on. “If I’m honest I’m struggling not to out myself just to give us something to talk about, how do you cope?” 

Jones’ turn to laugh. “He says more than you think, when you know what to look for.” 

Well. That's at least some confirmation that Jones must be a _little bit_ aware of all these looks Dan has for him. "Right, and what am I looking for?" He asks, hopes to get a straight answer form one of them 

“I don’t really know how to explain it.” Vince thinks he could explain it for them. He doesn't though. “His eyes, sometimes. A bit like your Howard. Once you know ‘im you know what he’s saying.”  Vince hums his agreement, decides not to mention this lust thing then. Maybe Jones genuinely hasn't noticed that part. Anyway before he can the other man is cutting him off with. “I think you should go with him tonight.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. He hasn’t invited me for ages. I think if he’s asking then he really needs the support. He just won’t say it like that.” Jones sounds incredibly sad, probably kicking himself that he was off living another life when Dan finally chose to come around. “But um… Don’t drink?”

Those context clues, coming back to him. Jones doesn’t drink. “Again, don’t you think you should have mentioned you’re teetotal before all of this? What if I’d been doing vodka shots with your housemate all morning.” 

Thankfully his tease comes through, as he’s not actually scolding him. In among all of his abstinence of information this one Vince can actually understand him not sharing - until now it genuinely wouldn't have been relevant. “In my defence how was I supposed to know what would be important at the time? I don’t make a habit of this you know.” 

“Well neither do I but I gave you some well good info.” Despite the fact he can’t be seen, Vince pouts. Jones continues chuckling at him. 

“Alright, have it your way.” He huffs. “Vince? I think you should know I don’t drink.” 

“Will I need to know why?” 

“No.” And it’s a surprisingly firm delivery. “Dan won’t offer you anything, he knows, but I just want to make sure you don’t indulge and make me look bad.” 

More pieces of the puzzle slotting together. 

“Anything else, then?” 

“Nope, nothing major. Drink coffee, hang about, eat sweets. That’s me.” 

Vince snorts but agrees. "When should I call you next, then?" It made sense to keep their own contact as regular as possible. 

"Tomorrow morning." Jones didn't pause before answering, and Vince could be offended at the blatant need he has to check how the party went but he knows if the shoe were on the other foot he would be just as concerned. 

"Alright. I'll speak to you tomorrow then." 

Jones chirps a goodbye - and it isn't until after he has hung up the phone that Vince realises they both seemed more than a tad eager to get back to their new adventure. So much so that they hadn't really discussed anything of importance. Vince had so many questions before he'd made the call; would have thought Jones would be in a similar spot. But no. 

He'd withheld some of his observations. Would be willing to bet there were things Jones didn't say either. 

God. They were both in trouble. 


	5. Choking on the aftertaste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jones spends his first night in Vince's flat and finally, after getting comfortable enough (arguably too comfortable) in his presence, starts a dialogue with Howard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An entire chapter of Jones and Howard! Conversationally, Jones takes a step forward - personally? He might take three backwards.

Hanging up from Vince is the first time Jones feels truly alone in this venture since he started it. 

Before, there had been a distant sense of being misplaced. That feeling he's sure is common with most of the population when entering a new situation with new people; uncertain if you will be well received. Couple that with the foreign sensation of trying to make the shape of himself fit into the hole left behind by Vince and it had been tricky, but bearable. So long as he kept himself focused on other matter than what was going on at home he was able to skate by on foolish optimism that this would all turn out okay for them both. In fact, as wrapped up as he'd been in Howard and his addictive ability to _care_ about him, he hadn't spared much more than a passing thought about Vince. Or Dan. Not for hours.

Having now had a check in with home and been regaled insightful information, it was suddenly the last thing in the world he wanted to do to face Howard again.

Dan had invited Vince to a party. 

Had a small part of him hoped Vince would have been caught out almost immediately? Yes. If only just to prove to himself that Dan would _notice_ . Perhaps a selfish thought, but Jones had never been anything but completely open in his own introspection and surprise, he could be incredibly selfish if the circumstances were right. Granted these _particular_ circumstances were a tad extreme, but they were doing a bang-up job of making him retreat into self-centred tendencies anyway. 

_Dan had invited Vince to a party._

An invitation that in any other circumstances might be considered quite innocent in it's outward appearance, but it was a gesture that had not been extended to him since _SugaRape_ hired a bunch of models and groped them for the sake of a cover feature. Dan had propped himself up using alcohol and Jones respectively; and that is in no way an exaggeration. The entire night Jones had hovered diligently at the edge of the room, weaving between bodies like a predator stalking a weak foal. Tracked every move Dan made with his eyes, waiting for the tells that would indicate it was time to pull him from the depths of his own stormy existence and drag him home. 

He'd say forcibly but Dan always went willingly where Jones led. 

The magazine was a distant memory, thankfully, and he hadn’t exactly been partying much while he’d been recovering from the window. A combination of casts, post surgery medication, and physiotherapy puts a bit of a damper on a person's desire to make merry, he's told.

So if he were to consider it from a logical stand point, then absolutely should not be locked in a stranger's bathroom wondering what on earth Vince had to offer that he didn't - because that is _not_ why Vince was invited tonight. Absolutely not. It had nothing to do with the switch it was plain and simple coincidence. Plain and simple. 

Wasn't it? 

_Sheer coincidence_ that Vince happened to be playing him when the pilot party rolled around. Just _terrible luck_ that when Dan _finally_ reached out for support Vince was who he found. 

There is no reason at all for his chest to go tight. For his head to throb and swim. His vision blurring at the edges.

But it does. 

Unfamiliar surroundings was only making things worse. Balanced on the lip of a bathtub that isn't his. Surrounded by the indicators of someone else's life. Their happiness. Jones can truly say he's never felt the need to glare at someone's toothbrush before but Vince's is customized with stick on diamante's and it's like a personal slight against him in his current mindset. 

_Even his fucking toothbrush is more interesting that you._

"Oh fuck." He chokes, panicked hands coming up to clutch at his own ribs like he might be able to force the organs beneath to cooperate. Phone clattering to the floor in the process, forgotten and unimportant in this moment. Closing his eyes against the imminent feeling of terror that overcomes him, he has to forcibly take one deep breath, and then a second; air rattling from him as it escapes quicker than he can draw it in. He thought he'd seen his last panic attack years ago. He should have known better, that they was always a risk of this coming back for him. Lingering in his subconscious, hovering low, a threat. 

Jones can run from his past for the rest of his life but scars remain.

And they loved to creep up on him like this, in a moment where he wasn't prepared for them. Wasn't equipped to cope like he might have been _any other day but today_. 

The worst part by far was the knowing it wasn't about Vince. On a surface level, perhaps, yes, he was jealous, but that wasn't what made him choke on his own breath. Wasn't why his fingers gripped at the material of a strange shirt and shook so hard he thinks he can hear the bones of his hands knocking together. 

No that was all Dan. 

The inherent _worry_ for his friend. This was going to be his first event like this in a while. Was he ready for it? He was almost certainly going to drink himself blind if he was given the chance, Dan did anyway, but he’d need to if he was in that situation without the proper support network in place. God he had left Dan alone with someone who might not be able to handle him properly; wouldn’t know his limits. Wouldn't understand that to Dan people (especially the likes of whom he would be forced into close quarters with tonight) were abrasive, like sandpaper on your bare skin. They tasted like sour grapes, earthy and sharp. They left you with a distinctly unpleasant aftertaste. 

Jones understood him, because he was the same. Operating on a similar wavelength. Jones was just better at hiding how he felt from the world.

One of his hands comes up to his hair; carding through the recently dyed locks and giving a healthy tug to ground himself. It doesn't help. Dan needed him and he wasn't there. He'd be here, playing house with someone else's future boyfriend. For all intents and purposes, he had failed him as a friend. He'd let him down. Gone back on the second agreement they'd ever made in their friendship. 

_"I've got a gig tonight, wanna come?"_ _He'd asked, Dan reclined on their (now shared) bed._

_"What for?"_

_"Keep me company?" Jones had never been afraid to ask for what he wanted before, even less so with Dan. "To be honest, I've never played this place before and it all feels a bit-" In his opinion, the gesture he'd made didn't encapsulate the meaning of 'overwhelming' well enough but Dan understood him regardless._

_"Okay." He'd said. His hair had been growing out then, bobbed around his head as he nodded. "Tell you what. I'll keep you company to any gigs you need. On one condition- wait, two conditions."_

_"What's them then?"_

_"One, you pay my bar tab." Dan held his fingers up as he counted. "Two, you're gonna have to do the same for me when Jonatton's promotion party comes around. I_ cannot _face those wankers all by myself."_

_Jones hadn't even needed to think before he'd declared, "Deal."_

Not knowing where you stood with Dan was one thing, a very annoying thing, sure, but it was a secondary concern when one took into consideration the rules of their friendship (put in place by Jones and Dan themselves) had never once been broken. Until now. 

Every new gig Jones ever went played, Dan had been there. Even if it was a familiar place, a regular club, somewhere he knew, if he was using new music - pr perhaps just worried about the crowd. Dan was there. Always perched at the back of the room; wolfish grin glinting in the flashing lights. A beacon for Jones to look to when he was afraid of losing his nerve. Nine times out of ten, the man would even make the effort to push his way to the stage door and meet him when he was done. Uncaring of how the younger Dj was drenched in sweat, would toss an affectionate arm over his shoulder and yell into his ear, _"I have no idea what you just played but it was good!"_

That mutual arrangement was the reason Jones had said yes to a lot of gigs he might have otherwise have sad no to. Including the place he now has a regular slot. 

Jones had needed him then and Dan needed him now, except he wasn’t there. 

It's becoming too dangerous to remain sat on the side of the tub; he cannot get himself under control enough to stop him swaying precariously from side to side. As a precautionary measure he slides to the floor; ducks his head low and keeps attempting to breath in time to a count in a way he was taught a long time ago. Knees rise to his chest; he curls forwards to hug them tightly. His jaw aches from how hard he is clenching it. 

It is of course this exact moment a hesitant knock comes through the wood of the door.

“Vince?” Howard’s concerned voice does nothing to alleviate this weight of guilt on his chest, only convinces him he is doing more harm than good right now. “You okay?” 

“Yup.” He calls back automatically, strained even to his own ears. “Fine.” 

There’s the sound of hesitant feet shuffling outside the door. Howard hovering anxiously no doubt. Jones is glad he had the forethought to lock the door behind him or he is almost certain the man would have tried to get in by now. “You sure?” 

“Yes.” There’s more snap to his tone than he initially intends, but it works. There’s a soft rumble of _‘If you say so_ ’ and then the footsteps retreat. 

Jones is left to wrangle the pieces of his fractured self-worth back into Vince's frame. 

***

A shower helps. 

He daresent try to figure out how long he had spent hyperventilating on the bathroom floor; running through age old coping techniques until one stuck enough to work. Though, he knows it was almost certainly long enough that his Grandmother's St. Christopher may have left permanent indentation in his palm how tightly he continued to grip it.

But that's beside the point. He successfully coaxes himself out of the other side; that first unhindered breath gasped like a man resurfacing from beneath the turbulent waves of a stormy sea. After that he spends another minute or so for the mental dust to settle before he forces himself to his feet and holds himself up by the edges of the sink. It's only once he's absolutely certain that he can stand without toppling over that he climbs in a shower hotter than he can usually stand and tries his hardest to clean off the last half an hour. 

Jones doesn't normally put that much thought into his own self care, past the necessities that are pertinent to keeping him functioning. But when in Vince, do as the Noirs do, right? So maybe he lathers himself in a selection of fruity body washes and drags blobs of _'revitalising conditioner'_ through his hair if only because after an episode like that he deserves to feel taken care of. 

And only a little bit because the more he loses himself in this illusion of Vince, the easier it is to forget how monumentally saddening it is to be Jones in this exact moment. 

Annoyingly, he leaves some rather telling streaks of black dye all over the towels as he dries himself. For a person who has spent many man hours dying his hair, he had forgotten how messy it could be for days after the fact; a little bit of runoff was only to be expected while the colour settled. Regardless, it's not a crisis, tossing the streaky towel into the washing hamper has solved that issue. Surely it wouldn't be discovered until well after this whole charade had come to it's logical conclusion. 

Last step in his plan involves some of Vince's most comfortable pyjamas. While most of Vince's other clothes intimidated him, his bedclothes were another matter entirely. Everything from loose fitting cotton things to what looks like luxury silk things exist in his drawers; Vince apparently has a selection of nightwear for every occasion. He does have to wonder if the man has ever found a reason to wear the strappy vests and tiny little shorts that were no doubt designed for women and yes no doubt still flatter on Vince's frame. 

What Jones settles on is one of the discarded tshirts and a pair of white and blue striped cotton bottoms. 

Overall, the mundaneness of the whole thing has helped calming him. Shower and change for bed, simple. No need to overthink any part of that process. Though, he is craving a cigarette so bad he thinks he might actually vomit from the feeling. And tea wasn’t his ideal source of caffeine but he was going to have to drink about nine of them tonight if he was going to come close to his usual buzz. Sleep would no doubt claim him eventually; it had been a tiring day emotionally. But staying asleep would be the trouble.

Restless was his default state anyway, only made worse by his worrying over whatever Dan would be getting up to without him. 

The only constant he has right now is Howard, who he is sure that without even knowing what the problem is will be able to cheer him up. 

He’s proven correct when he reenters the flat at large; Howard hovering by the stove stirring something in a pot. The domesticity of it all does wonders for the ache in his chest; the smell of food warming him to his very core. and banishing the sharp chill of uncertainty. For a moment he just watches the other man’s back, loses himself in the motion of his body as he shuffles about to whatever low thrum of music he has coming from his record player. 

It’s nice, the image of him. The kind of thing he could get used to seeing.

“What’s this you’re playing?” He asks into the quiet. Howard tries very hard not to show he is startled by the sudden appearance of a voice, it almost works. 

“ _Self Portrait In Three Colors.”_ Howard answers, an air of superiority around him despite how he moves to turn it off. Understandable, given that Vince hadn’t been able to say the word Jazz without sneering it. Jones didn’t actually mind it, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. 

Curiosity overcoming him, Jones sidles up to the stove and peeks into the pots. True to his earlier suggestion; Howard is making a curry. “Smells good.” 

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to be in the mood to eat tonight.” That sentence alone speaks volumes of a man who had many times made a meal only to find his fickle flatmate has preferred to gorge himself on sweets instead. At least neither he nor Dan ever cooked. Which meant his less than ideal diet was never brought into question. Sounds like Vince lived with someone more likely to police his food intake, though. 

“I can eat.” His stomach rumbles in agreement. He was sure he read somewhere once that spicy food can help with nicotine cravings. Or maybe it made it worse. Who knows. Either way, he was about to find out. “Not too much though, yeah? Don’t wanna waste any of it.” 

Howard nods at him like that was a given; understands already that his flatmate won’t eat large meals and wouldn’t dream of serving him a large portion anyway. He indicates to the small table over by the wall, where Howard had preemptively started laying place mats and cutlery. Dutifully, Jones goes. Takes a seat and props his elbow on the table, rests his head on his hand as he tracks Howard’s movements around the kitchen with intense fascination. 

The kitchen is clearly his domain. When sharing a space with a large personality like Vince, Jones imagines it must be difficult not to get stifled, lost in the shadow of his all consuming existence, but Howard seems to make it work. He slides into the spaces of their life that Vince doesn't fit; as Jones is coming to understand that means in the domestic and responsible places. 

Two halves of a whole working in perfect tandem.

What happens in the spaces where they overlap, he wonders? Their music. Their friends. Their job. Does the entity that is Vince swallow Howard up whole or has he learnt, in his own way, to fight his corner. Inimitable in his own right. 

He supposes he won't know until he gets a chance to see it for himself. 

It's a blessing that his silence doesn't bother Howard, the man much too preoccupied dishing up their food than whether his usually chatty friend was being a bit quiet. He just couldn't find it in himself to force conversation just yet; internal batteries are still recharging. But watching the other man bustle about leaves him feeling a bit like a spare part, just sat waiting to be served food. He shifts in his seat, considers offering to help - it's a moot point when he is presented with a plate of fluffy white rice and steaming curry. This seems routine for them. 

“We’ve still got some of those alcopops in you like if you want one?” Howard offers; where Vince is a people pleaser, Howard appears to be a Vince pleaser. 

“Uh, just water's fine.” Jones brushes him off in a hopefully polite manner, more concerned with how hungry he is. He hadn’t even realised it had probably been days since he last treat himself to real food - and now his stomach was nauseous with how desperately it wanted to wolf down the delicious looking meal in front of him. 

Howard shrugs him off either way, returns to the table to take his seat with a fresh glass of water for him and a lager for himself. Jones had never been particularly bothered by people drinking around him, he did live with Dan after all, but he was particularly glad Howard was a lager drinker versus him indulging in spirits.

Spirits were harder for him to resist even on a good day, and he didn’t feel like there was enough fight in him tonight. 

For a time, they eat in silence. Howard makes no attempt to ask him about what had Jones locking himself in the bathroom - or snapping at him for that matter. Content to just enjoy their food in a companionable blanket of familiarity. Vince was right about Howard’s cooking, at least. It’s incredible, and after he swallows down half of his portion he finds it in himself to tell him that.

The other man stares down at his own plate humbly; cheeks colouring. He does express his gratitude for the sentiment. "Thank you," Is muttered towards the table rather than to Jones himself but he'll take it. 

The atmosphere around them is relaxed and calm. Soothing Jones’ ruffled feathers enough that he feels his reason for being here nagging him in the back of his mind. Talking to Howard seriously while his guard was down, and he wasn't sure they would get his guard any further down than how low it had sunk while they ate. 

“Naboo reckons he’s sick of being put in the middle of us.” Jones starts, pushing some of the remaining food around his plate with his fork. And while it wasn’t exactly what was said to him, he could interpret enough about the situation to bet it was true nonetheless. 

Howard’s drink pauses halfway to his mouth. “He said that?” 

“Not in as many words but I got a feelin’.” Howard accepts this as fact and sighs heavily, Jones cuts a glance at him and registers the resigned colour to his features. He’s accepting that this conversation needs to be had, it seemed. “Didn't think we'd gotten that bad." 

It's not as smooth as it could be, but to his credit, it isn't exactly as forthright as his previous attempt either. He has kept his gaze low, posture hunched, overall portraying himself as a vulnerable creature so as not to frighten Howard away. So far it seems to work. He can feel the man's eyes on him as he sips thoughtfully at his drink, takes his time to consider an answer. 

He hasn't frozen, which can only be a good thing. 

“I think he’s just worried about you.” Is what Howard settles on as his response. Which is typical really, both managing to be comforting and self deprecating in one fell swoop. It’s a combination of tactics to back out of the conversation.

Jones isn’t having that, lifts his head to lock eyes with his target, raises both his eyebrows in obvious disbelief. “Naboo? Worried? He don’t really do that sort of thing, does he?” Frightened as he is by direct eye contact, Howard’s gaze skitters away. “ _I_ think he’s getting sick of playing piggy in the middle to our drama.” 

It’s like backing an animal into a corner, you’re not really sure how it’s going to react. Will it cower or will it snap back? Neither is ideal but if Jones had to pick he’d take a fight over silence any day, it was the only way he was going to make him face facts. 

He takes too long to respond, Jones keeps prodding. “I heard you. Before he came to see me in the stockroom - you asked him to talk to me so you didn’t have to.” 

That provokes a reaction in some capacity. Howard’s elbow rests on the table, while his hand covers his eyes. All the better not to acknowledge what's happening, he supposes. 

This time he lets the words hang in the air between them. Large and taking up space. Unmissable. Howard can stew in silence. Jones is at least confident he is unlikely to employ a Dan tactic and straight up leave the room, so he gives him a perception of space by standing to clear their finished dishes. Stacks them precariously by the sink and refills his water glass before he returns. Howard is sending him shifty glances the whole time, and when he settles back at the table the man is trying his hardest to look at him but his gaze is trapped somewhere just to the left of his head. 

Still, the effort is not unnoticed despite how much it clearly bothers him. It’s appreciated. 

“It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you.” Howard says, his gaze earnest despite it not being directed at him. “I just thought you’d be happy to see Naboo.” 

“You thought I wouldn’t want to see you, you mean?” 

There’s a staccato nod. An awkward jarring motion that looks uncomfortable. The eyeline is on the move again too, shifting to his own large hands where they fidget against the surface of the table. He does not elaborate on his initial comment. 

Jones sits forward; his weight resting on his arms on the surface. “I’m never gonna wanna see anyone more than I’ll wanna see you, ‘oward.” It’s a hell of a thing for him to admit on Vince’s behalf, but forgive him if he thinks there’s more than a lingering sense of betrayal over a trip to Denmark that they need to talk about right now. 

Plus, when he’s feeling so rejected and apart from his own version of this face. Maybe it’s nice to bask in the false reality of his confessions. “Why would you think that?” 

As an outsider, he knows exactly why Howard would think that. If they were disagreeing as much as is insinuated, compared to the kind of conflict free existence they usually boasted, then it would be the kind of assumption most people would make. Arguing = Not getting along = He probably doesn't want to see me. But it was one thing to talk about the problem and go back to his own happy life; what would really help them in the long run was going to be encouraging Howard (Vince was going to be a whole separate problem) to feel comfortable enough confronting his emotions. 

“You know why I think that,” Howard responds. Which is a rather clever way of not answering, he thinks. Putting the duty of extrapolation on him. But Jones isn’t going to let him get away with that; plays dumb, creases his brow and gives him an utterly lost expression. It works, Howard gives his eyes a hard roll and then mutters, an almost exact quote of his question that morning. “Because we fight all the time now.” 

Glad to know it was a shared acknowledgment, Jones teases, “No freezing this time?” 

It was like a reward for being honest, he thinks, offering him a sense of normalcy through humour when he looks like he’s getting ready to bolt. An incentive for him to engage. 

Howard doesn’t respond verbally, but his mouth twitches with the ghost of amusement. If there was anything this pair were experts at, it was laughing at themselves as much as they laughed at each other. It was encouraging. 

“We shouldn’t fight anymore.” Jones announces, as if it were simply that easy to solve. Howard must be skeptical of the suggestion, because when he darts his shrew eyes up at him, he seems disbelieving. “Well, maybe a bit. I don’t think we’d be us if you didn’t nag me for being messy or-” 

“Or you didn’t whine at me for playing jazz?” 

It’s the first thing he’s said in a while, Jones had begun to get afraid he was losing him from this conversation, but it seems he is just silently present. “Yeah.” He agrees. “But the ones that aren’t _us_. We should stop that. If just for the sake of not being tossed out on our arses because we get too annoying for Naboo to put up with.” 

Finally, Howard dares to look up at him properly. He even allows himself to laugh at the statement. It’s by no means a complete conversation, and the problem isn’t solved by a long shot, but Jones has achieved what he hoped to - he has started a dialogue and he can continue to chip away at it in a slow and easy pace that will prevent Howard from disengaging or freezing in fear. A slow but certain process. “Do you agree? I can’t tell what you’re thinking behind that shifty gaze.” 

“Yes, I think you might be right. Heaven forbid.” 

Jones reverts back to his cheeky nature, sticks his tongue from his mouth. Howard shakes his head at him as if he were a misbehaving child rather than his adult flatmate. 

A good start, but Howard was reaching the level of tense he had been in the shop so Jones says, “Good. Now maybe go have a bath, you’re all tense like a porcupine in a balloon factory.” 

“That happens when you get serious.” 

Jones smirks playfully at him, drops back into his chair and crosses his arms over his chest in an overt display of his casual nature- like he could spread some of this calm to Howard through act alone. “I’ll try not to do it again, then.” 

“Well…” Howard fidgets with his empty lager, clears his throat to dislodge the words that don't seem to want to be spoken. Jones can imagine them all in there clinging on for dear life. “It’s not _awful._ You are right, about Naboo getting sick of us. Just, don’t make a habit of it. The world can’t handle a responsible Vince.” He maneuvers himself to his feet as he speaks. Straightens himself out, fixes his collar and tugs at the material of his shirt, like he can smooth himself back into something resembling order. “Though now you mention it, I think I _will_ have that bath.” 

“Have fun.” Jones chirps. “Don’t play that jazz nonsense too loud, though, gets right on my wick.” 

Howard narrows his eyes at him, smirking. “Don’t play your electro rubbish either.” 

“I make no promises.” There’s just enough time for them to share a fond moment of eye contact before Howard disappears in the direction of the bathroom. 

Left alone at the table, Jones is conflicted. The rush of success is overwhelming, and yet, lingering in the pit of his stomach is the draining sense of sickness that his anxiety brings. He had managed to avoid thinking about what Vince and Dan would be getting up to for ages, and yet, left in this isolation, the thoughts swim at him once more. 

His phone digs into him where it is wedged in his back pocket ad he aches to take it out. To call Vince and call the whole thing off. Or maybe demand to be left on call the whole night so he can hear the sound of his friend’s voice as he no doubt uses Vince (Jones) as a walking coping mechanism. Wishes he could see what was happening so he could understand how well Vince was carrying off his performance - wonders for the first time if he’d been looking through Jones’ flat like Jones had been looking through here. 

The thought of what Vince might already know about him is worse than the thought of Dan liking the Jones clone better than the original. 

He has to find something to keep himself busy. 

***

When Vince had expressed that he and Howard were in a band together, he had completely neglected to mention what kind of music they made, nor what instruments were involved. 

All Jones knew for sure was that Howard was responsible for the musical talent, while Vince preferred to focus on the look rather than the sound. Naturally, while Howard is occupied in a bath and he is seeking distraction, Jones goes searching in the spaces he has yet to explore in the hopes of finding answers. He makes himself a fresh cup of tea, knowing the caffeine will not be a suitable replacement for the instant buzz he gets from coffee but resigning himself to the substitute anyway, and sets about his snooping. 

There’s a tower like space he had noticed earlier but given no notice to until now. And in there, he finds a stack of equipment the likes of which he is intimately familiar. His soul sings it's delight. There are a range of typical classic instruments. Of course, a trumpet case. A bassoon? A guitar propped by the window. A lone cymbal. But there’s also a whole host of electronic components that Jones recognises; cables and sound boards clumped messily together and covered with a layer of dust that’s indicative of how long it’s been since they were used. 

But what draws his attention the most is the keyboards that are still set up, hooked up to a mixing desk reminiscent of the one he has at home, obviously the most recent thing to have been put to some kind of use. 

He can’t actually remember the last time he played an instrument properly, and he was capable in a varying range of them, but when he settles himself down behind the ivory pegs his fingers tingle with the phantom feeling of pressing down on keys and forcing notes into existence. 

He’d been capable in many but he’d excelled at piano. His grandmother had taught him. 

Her personal piano was still in the flat, a little upright she had kept in the corner of her study and watched over him practicing while she worked. When he’d bought the _House of Jones_ , he had been forced to sort through a lot of the things she’d left behind, and he simply hadn’t been able to get rid of the thing despite his not having any intention of touching it again. So it got rammed in the second bedroom, along with any other worldly possessions that Jones couldn’t face dealing with. Anything that made him who he was before tucked into boxes and shoved behind a locked door. Promptly forgotten about.

When Dan moved in he’d been more than happy to allow the man a similar tactic of reinvention. He’d piled more boxes on top of Jones’ and they’d silently agreed that room didn’t get talked about. 

No one went in there. 

Right now, he thinks perhaps he might be ready to start reclaiming the parts of himself he had shut away. Not all of them, but some. The good parts that until now had been doused in painful memories. The parts that weren’t harmful, that weren't buzzed on illegal substances and unable to remember their own names - let alone whos memories they ever were. 

Almost certainly had Howard not been within hearing distance, Jones definitely would have tried to play something. Just to see what muscle memory could bring out of him when presented with the chance. But given that he has been listening to soft notes of a jazz tape playing from the bathroom for an indeterminate amount of time, he is confident the other man would _definitely_ hear him should he power the keyboard on. He can play silently though. Lets the fingers of one hand trace over the keys and press silently in some places, shaping out what he thinks is a tune he learnt as a child. 

He's still there when the bathroom door finally opens. From this spot, he sees it swing open, steam spilling out and Howard emerging like something out of _Stars in Their Eyes._

It takes a moment to click on, Howard making a beeline for the kettle to indulge in his own late night cup of tea, but after cocking his head to the side and scrutinising the white and blue striped set (and actual set, bottoms and a matching button down shirt) that Howard is wearing he realises they match the exact bottoms he is wearing. That Vince owns. 

_They own matching pyjamas._

Honestly, he is feeling out of sorts enough that the reality of this almost makes him weep. 

"Do I want to know what you're doing over there?" Howard calls over his shoulder, as he reaches into the fridge to grab milk for his tea he even shoots him a look. Eyebrows raised, giddy playfulness edging at the corners of his eyes. "If you break them again, I'll come at you." 

Jones isn’t sure what amuses him more, the threat or the mental image of what Vince was doing to them last time in order to break them. “I’m not gonna break ‘em.” He snaps back, though not unkindly. Eyes remaining on Howard as he moves from the kitchen to hover by him in the tower space. “I was just thinking about the band that’s all.” 

They’ve had a break, now time for a bit more talking. 

This tactic so far seems to work well for him, move in with a serious topic, balance it with humour, and then retreat to allow the man space to breathe and formulate his own responses. 

It means Howard doesn’t tense as much when the topic comes up this time, almost as if he’d been expecting it. “Oh yeah?” He asks with as much cool detachment as he can manage, which isn't a lot, bless him. His voice still wavers and his whole body is tense like he might suddenly freeze up. But he's trying. “What about it?” 

Jones reaches out to plunk his finger against one of the keys as he shrugs. “What was the last thing we made?” 

Even Howard has to think about this one, like the memory was going to take a moment to find in amongst all his (no doubt carefully organised, knowing him) other mental business. “Future sailors, I think, though _we_ never ended up playing it for anyone did we?” Jones hasn’t got a clue, nods along anyway. To which Howard adds, “You haven’t asked about the band in a while, what’s brought this on?” 

He really should have accounted for the fact that eventually Howard would grow a backbone enough to start asking questions back to him. He still stutters over an answer before he lands on a succinct half truth. “I think a lot about America, that’s all. What would have happened if that had... gone differently.” 

One thing was for certain, he definitely did not know enough about this situation to talk about it with any sense of authority; but he’s gaining a talent for being able to dodge topics and only selectively mention things while keeping Howard talking. He can skate by on the bare minimum if he plays his cards right - Vince told him they’d never made it to America, that Howard had been a prat, that Vince had brought their band to an end after a trip gone wrong. That's enough to improvise surely? 

For now he’s successful. The mention of a failed trip makes the other man shift his weight on his feet; this is something else they never talk about it seems. It would probably be quicker for Jones to write a list of things they _do_ talk about, it would certainly be shorter. 

“I think the way it went was preferable actually,” And Jones is so flawed at that admittance that he doesn’t even have to pretend to gape at him in a mixture of annoyance and utter shock. 

“You what?” 

Howard clearly sees his distress, and only response is to offer a placating gesture, imploring him silently to hear him out. “Think about it, Vince, our track record hardly lends itself to success does it? I dread to think what would have befallen us if we’d made it all the way to the states.” 

“It was our big break!” Jones squeals, beginning to think he had read this whole situation wrong, or Howard was deeper in this bastard persona Vince had described from their island adventure than first thought. “We’d have fame and fortune and we’d still have a _band.”_

The atmosphere shifts, Howard is frowning at him like he is in fact the one in the wrong here. Like he had forgotten an intrinsic part of their relationship. “No, Vince, _you’d_ have that. I’d probably have an overeager groupie with a tendency to stalk and kill their idols and if I’m lucky enough, our manager would remember my name.” 

And okay, yes perhaps he really was missing the deep understanding of how Vince’s world seemed to operate around them. But Howard’s words have him deflate immediately and instead consider the implications of his insistence. “You’re…That was a pretty self aware assessment for someone who freezes up when we try to have serious chats.” 

Which, he supposes should have outed him, but it doesn’t. It just leads Howard to remark the single most confusing thing he’s ever heard come from someone’s mouth since he’s lived. 

“Same script, different day.” He sighs, resigned. 

He’d been joking when he’d sat in the stock room earlier today and wondered if the world seemed intentionally stacked against Howard - and now here he was learning it was in fact that way _from the man himself._ An incredible display of self awareness, in his opinion, but he does wonder why there’s been no attempts made to change it. Especially if he’s correct in his insinuation that Vince is on the opposite end of the spectrum, the one with the luck. 

Was he _that_ comfortable in such a one sided partnership? 

They’ve managed to divert themselves onto such a tangent Jones isn’t sure how to get back to the topic at hand, and he’s too wrapped up in the shock of that realisation to bother delving into this particular conversational route any further. So what he does do is stand from his seated position and make way for Howard to sit. Nudging at his shoulder. “Play something.” He insists. 

“What, why?” This request has panicked Howard more than any of their conversations so far tonight. 

“Because.” Is the only response Jones gives, hurrying to drag a chair from the table where they ate over and settling on the opposite side of the keyboards. He snatches an abandoned notebook from the side and a pen to scribble onto it with - Howard just raises an eyebrow at him. 

“You want us to write a song?” He asks, incredulous. “Right now?”

“Not necessarily.” Jones affords him they shyest of smiles he has in his arsenal. “This is just in case. But you should play, we’re not a band if we don’t make music, are we?” 

Howard snorts derisively but is in fact switching the keyboard on with an impressive level of obedience. Jones almost expected him to make some sort of comment, about Vince’s insistence of taking a break from said band while also trying to get into everyone else’s. But he doesn’t. The eyes glimmer with the unspoken words though, and Jones chooses not to acknowledge them. 

It takes a moment for him to get over some of his initial stage fight, Jones thinks. He starts off with careful fingers plucking at the keys in a seemingly random configuration. Other hand fiddling with the controls until the plunk of a piano becomes something distinctly more electronic - Jones can vibe with that. 

“That sounds cool,” Jones praises, when Howard had managed to stumble on an improvised melody of some sort. “Do that again.” 

“What this?” Keys are pressed; repeating the sound. Jones bobs his head in an encouraging nod, resists the urge to reach over and add his own hands to the equation. 

Howard does a good job of carrying the music himself, actually, and Jones wishes he was himself right now. They could potentially make something pretty brilliant together, the two of them. Howard’s natural gift for melody and Jones jumping in from the side to tinker and edit it. Hell, if they could talk Vince into a collaboration then all Jones would need was a few hours of their time and his recording equipment. 

The other man has taken to improvising his way through some sounds, face pinched in focus, he’s alternating speed and key with the same repeated combination; until he settles, and then his free hand tries a chord on top. “Genius!” Jones praises, scoots closer on his chair. 

He can’t help himself but to reach over and start hitting buttons that he is more than familiar with. He might have been trained in classical piano but his current discipline is all electrical and he knew the way this setup was rigged would afford him the opportunity to tinker. The sound was already a pleasing electric fizz of music; Howard’s playing on synth rather than a plain old piano which already makes it interesting in his books. Jones just wants to see if he can help. 

He hits a button allowing them the added bonus of a pre-programmed backing track, but the first one that arrives is horrifically clashing, and Howard wrinkles his nose with such distaste that Jones cackles joyfully as he presses more buttons. Something suitably electronic rings out, Vince would be proud, complimenting the still looping melody and chord sequence Howard is obediently repeating over and over while he experiments around him. It’s second nature to him as he plays, focusing more attention on what Jones is doing as he leans over to start fiddling with the reverb. 

“‘S good.” He announces a moment later, happy with the sound they have created. 

“Since when did you have musical fingers.” 

Rather than answer him directly, Jones cocks his head to the side in consideration. He’s never been a lyricist, none of his tracks have ever had actual vocals - unless you count snippets of recorded conversation he has chopped up on his computer and wedged back together for the sake of layering over a track. Nothing like this. “Musical fingers.” He repeats, pen tapping rhythmically on his notepad. “With a Drum and Bass heartbeat.” 

All Howard does is quirk his eyebrow at him. Jones dips his head to scribble things into the notebook balanced precariously in his lap. 

All at once the music stops. Well, some of it stops, the part that Howard was making. The preprogammed electro backing track from the keyboard keeps playing, but Howard has dropped his hands into his lap and is frowning hard at Jones. It reminds him so much of Dan, on the rare occasion Jones did something to disappoint him, that it’s too much for him to look at; he darts his gaze to the left and hopes it won’t follow him. 

“Are we actually doing this?” Howard clarifies. 

“Doing what?” 

“The band.” And for once, it seems they have stumbled on a topic that does not frighten Howard. His jaw is set, eyes pinched. When he'd wondered what would happen to Howard in their overlapping spaces, this is what he had secretly hoped to witness. Apparently music is the one place he refuses to be walked all over by Vince, which in some ways is completely refreshing. “Are you suddenly interested again?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, Howard.” Jones tries his hardest to sound sincere. He’s making a promise on Vince’s behalf but at this point he thinks he might just know what is best for him on this front, the man himself certainly didn’t if his reported behaviour was anything to go off recently. “I’m sure.” 

“Right.” Howard turns his face away, casts a look over his other instruments. He takes one big breath, opens his mouth, but when words won’t come immediately has to clear his throat of his trepidation and try again. He’s winding himself up to say something, Jones knows, something important, one of those many things he’s noticed burning inside of him. 

_He’s finally going to talk_. 

Which is exciting, of course it is, it means he’s made a break through. It physical confirmation he’s actually helping because the Howard he met this morning wouldn’t have dared say a thing. Part of him is really shocked that Vince couldn’t fix this himself if this was all it took, a bit of a firm hand and a willingness to engage him in their shared favourite activity. But then he remembers Vince is (in the nicest way possible) a bit blind to his own situation. Might have gotten so tangled and trapped behind the angst of his personal suffering that he couldn’t see the wood for the trees. 

Couldn't see how Howard suffered right along with him. 

It’s taken a solid minute or so of internal wind up but Howard finally chokes out, “Just because you’ve said that before.” He says, with each word gaining confidence, especially as he seems to click on Jones isn’t arguing with him. Or interrupting him either. “But there’s always another band, someone with a quicker ticket to fame than we’ll ever get.” 

“Look, I can’t promise to not get fame hungry every now and then,” A genuine thing, ironically. He really shouldn’t make these kinds of promises on Vince’s behalf. But he can make a humour filled statement of intent with it. “But that’s just because I am a gift to this planet and everyone should know about me.” 

Howard snorts at him. 

“Though, I will promise to only try and get famous with _our_ music from now on.” At least in this, he could probably be pretty certain Vince would agree. 

Howard’s fighting flame has dwindled somewhat, he is back to gazing earnestly without any words coming forth. Jones just smiles patiently at him. 

“I suppose you’re going to have to get on the phone to Fossil then.” He says, effectively ending the serious portion of their evening. “Pretty sure he gave our slot away since we haven't played there in months.” 

“I’ll sort it, don’t you worry.” Jones rolls his eyes and points at the keyboard in an orderly fashion. “Now keep playing, we were onto something.” 

It was hardly his decks, but making music in any form was soothing for Jones’ soul. 

***

It’s just after eleven when Naboo appears in his bedroom doorway. 

"Are you ballbags planning on piping down any time soon?" The fact he actually _looks_ upset in indication enough of how deep his annoyance really goes. "I have to up to get Bollo from Xooberon tomorrow, what are you playing at?" 

"Sorry Naboo!" Howard calls on behalf of them both; Jones is still too busy giggling breathlessly over something Howard had said to him just before the angry shaman made an appearance that he's no help at all to the situation. "We'll stop." 

The bedroom door is once again slammed shut and Jones has to clamp a hand over his mouth to avoid a fresh wave of giggles drawing him back out here; Howard is shushing him, his own breathless laugh intermingling and not helping the situation at all. “You know he complains when we fight and he complains when we get along, what is it he actually wants from us?" He asks eventually, when he's able to form words without them dissolving into indecipherable snickers. 

“Silence and rent, probably.” Howard quips. 

It’s not even that funny but Jones is delirious from the crash he’s begun to feel edging into his bones. Makes him snort his amusement in a much too ungraceful fashion for his liking. He should think about sleeping soon, especially if he wants to make the most of his tiredness and exploit it for all the sleep he can get; he will inevitably be woken anyway.

But the thought of going to bed was daunting for him. At home, he was so used to kipping on the sofa over the bed that his initial concerns were he simply wouldn't be able to sleep in Vince's bed even if he wanted to. Even when he made it into his bed at home there were things about it that were _his,_ comforts he hadn't even thought about until just this moment. Like the looming ever-presence of Dan. His cologne was all over the bedroom, seeped into the sheets. And in a less metaphorical nad more literal sense; usually wherever Jones slept Dan was nearby. On the opposite sofa to him. Or barging into the bedroom while Jones was trying to sleep because he needed a lighter, or a change of clothes, or simply hand't known the other man was asleep in the first place. 

On one occasion neither of them remembered whos turn it was for the bed and Dan was pissed as a badger so he slid into the bed beside him and Jones was just too tired to care. 

Point being, he was a bit concerned about what a night in Vince’s life would look like, and how he'd cope. 

Howard has reached over to hit the power button on the electronic keyboard though, smirking playfully at him. “He’s right, you know, it is late and we have work tomorrow.” Oh god, he forgot the shop was an _actual_ job that they’d have to do day after day. This was a nightmare. “And if you leave your skincare routine much later you won’t get into bed until I’m getting up.” 

Jones’ heart melts over the intimate knowledge this pair have over one another. 

Yet another glaring sign they _must_ know about this underlying tension between them. Unsaid but present anyway. 

“I’m trying something new actually,” He lies for the sake of his performance. “It’s a much shorter process but apparently just as effective.” 

“You mean we won’t be absconded from the bathroom for _hours_ anymore?” 

“Well let’s not make assumptions.” Howard grins at him, shifting to start clearing away their various empty mugs and cups they’d gathered during their musical session. He even reaches for the notebook Jones had been scribbling in but he snatches it before he can and holds it tight against his chest. “It’s not finished.” He explains when the man frowns at him. 

Howard just shrugs him off, a gesture that feels very reminiscent of him saying ‘ _suit yourself_ ’ and moves to rinse their mugs. 

Truthfully Jones just wasn’t of the habit of sharing things like this with anyone. Well. Except Dan. 

He hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t a lyricist, but he did go through a process of his own creation that he was very protective of. He wouldn’t take a track to play at a set until it had been through multiple rounds of his personal scrutiny and passed. And of course, he lived with Dan, a man who would hear each version of whatever he was making and provide unhelpful (okay, really helpful) feedback. Often just mutterings of _"That siren track could do with being turned down."_ or _"I think six repetitions of the same crash is a bit much, try it with five instead."_

But that was different.

That was the existence of mutual understanding between them that what they created and put out into the world meant everything to them. Even to Dan, who would write some truly horrific pieces for the sake of money. He still _cared_ what his voice said when it was exposed to the rest of the world through his writing. And he understood Jones cared about what his voice said through his music. When Dan asked him to look at articles before they went out it was the same thing. Trust. 

He liked Howard, but he didn't have that trust with him. Not yet. 

As he darts off in the direction of the bedroom he lets himself think about the possibility that he might, though, one day. 

Jones wasn’t in the habit of planning too far into the future; liked to exist in the moment and burn bridges when he came to them if he could. But he already had a strong feeling that the connections he was forming with these people would be difficult to let go of once this was all over. After all, they all shared something no one else could give them, didn't they? 

He sits himself at Vince’s vanity table, tucks the notebook in the drawer where Vince had secluded all his other meaningful possessions knowing full well it won't be found there, and stares at himself in the mirror. If there’s one thing in this room Vince has kept clean it’s his mirror; the surface is gleaming where the rest of the Vanity table is splattered with droplets of foundation and smudges of lipstick. 

There's certainly plenty of options when it comes to faking his way through a skincare routine (once again, Jones' self care does not extend to this level of intensity) but when he starts scanning names and instructions on the backs of various packaging he comes to the conclusion there's only a handful he has the patience to execute. In the end, his choice is completely random, because Howard pushes into the room behind him and he uncaps whichever product he is holding like the action was a familiar one. 

In the reflection, Jones watches Howard move around this space (around Vince's existence) comfortably. More confidence in his frame as the night goes on than one might imagine him capable of possessing, awkward being as he is. 

“Oh, I’m doing the washing tomorrow.” He announces, flicking on a lamp beside his bed and casting the whole room in a soft glow. He tucks one corner of his duvet back and slides in with enough precision barely any of the neatly laid blankets are disturbed. They make eye contact in the reflection. “So you’re going to have to tell me what is clean and what’s not on that clothes dump you call your side.” 

“Shove off!” It’s a mumbled response, busy as he is lathering cream onto his face. “I’ll sort it in the morning.” 

“You say that, but I always end up doing it anyway.” This discussion is a rerun of an old one, Howard settles, book propped open on his stomach, never once looking up as he talks. “And then you get whiny because I forget something.” 

Jones doesn’t response past an amused huff; much too busy pulling a hairbrush (a proper ornate one, like a Victorian lady) through his hair. He’d let it dry naturally after his shower rather than blow dry it like he might have done at home and it means the whole do has gone a bit awry - wavy and thick as his natural hair is when it isn't forced into submission. Vince's straighteners are laying on the side, and he's debating giving himself a quick once over just to make it an easier process to deal with in the morning when he get's a tingle all down his spine. 

He's being watched. 

The mirror gives him away, Jones catches him in the act red handed, but he turns his head to look at him for real when he demands, “What?” 

Caught out, the man blushes a lovely shade of red. “Nothing.” He lies, turns his head back to his book.

Jones just smirks at him. He cannot wait for the opportunity to see these two interact with one another properly. It would probably rot his teeth right out of his head with how sweet he'd find it. It would almost certainly be a lot like watching two young teens deal with their first crush. All blushed looks and nervous glances. The kind of true love films and novels only dream of capturing. 

The creamy substance is wiped from his face after the allotted amount of time has passed; during which he does straighten his hair (and pretends not to notice the man across the room sending him longing looks - supposes he's earned the right after his bravery with their chats today) and then a fresh face wipe is brushed over his features to get rid of any remaining tackiness. And okay, yes, his skin does feel amazing after that short process alone, he wonders what Vince's skin must be like if he invests as much time in it as he does. 

Finally, _finally_ he settles in bed (after shifting the mountain of clothes Vince has stacked on it). His exhaustion is palpable. He is certain his bones are physically aching from how badly he wants to be asleep. Vince’s bed is about as luxurious as he imagined it would be; soft mattress, fluffy pillows, duvet covered in what he’s sure are silk sheets. And he’s so tired; turns out when you have something of a reliance on caffeine and you stop drinking it? You crash way faster. 

“I can turn the light off if you like,” Howard offers gently. Jones has already tucked himself deep in a nest of blankets and closed his eyes. But he can hear the smile on Howard’s face. 

“Nah, you’re alright.” He hums. Jones truly has a talent of sleeping through anything. Howard’s reading light won’t bother him. “G’night.” 

And as he drifts off into what he hopes will be a long and refreshing sleep, he hears Dan's voice. 

"Goodnight, little man." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who isn't a massive jazz fan, 'Self Portrait In Three Colors' by Charles Mingus is actually one of the songs I adore and I totally believe the kind of thing Howard would cook to. Very relaxing. 
> 
> Anyone who is unaware of the masterpiece that was 'Stars in Their Eyes' it was a brilliant show that involved people transforming themselves into superstars for the night with the help of special effects makeup, emerging from a cloud of fog, and then singing for us. Wonderful show, I kinda miss it. 
> 
> Next chapter we catch up with Vince and Dan and their adventures (mishaps).


	6. Love me like you love her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince comes to the realisation that Jones' world is harsher than his own, Dan (of course) gets drunk and mistakes are made, but finally, a conversation is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this chapter took a little longer than usual! I really had a time with it haha. 
> 
> Vince realises he might be a little out of his depth, but that isn't going to stop him trying to help as much as he can!

If Vince were keeping track of the ways Dan and Howard overlapped; their preparations for a night out would almost certainly go on that list. 

Their process began and ended in the same ridiculously short space of time. Twenty minutes. Maximum. A startlingly swift procedure compared to Vince’s personal version of quick that still left his timing in the region of  _ at least  _ an hour and a half - and that was when he rushed. 

Howard may rarely come to a club with him but it does happen if the universe aligns itself  _ just right _ . Mostly though, if you were to find Howard and Vince in a social situation together that also involved alcohol then you'd be witnessing them at their local pub. A place Howard found homely and Vince found not quite as embarrassing as any other option. It was on these nights Howard makes an, albeit still questionable, effort with his clothes. 

And that's where the differences between the two northern men become obvious once more. 

Contrary to what Vince likes to believe, there is a semblance of thought behind his flatmates fashion choices. He will not spend hours comparing fabrics and colours and experimenting with accessories. Whether or not highlighting hips or collar bones will be considered slutty never enters his mind. There is certainly not even a _small_ chance he thinks about how likely said outfit is to get him noticed like Vince does. But he does think about it. 

More than once, he has found himself playing judge as Howard has held up two equally nightmare inducing patterned shirts and inquired for thoughts on which might go better with the cords he's chosen to wear. 

Vince’s very unwelcome opinion is usually that all of it should be on fire in a skip.

Dan took a slightly different road with his speed dressing decisions. Being that there appears to be no thought whatsoever involved. 

Vince is busy with his head wedged in the wardrobe Jones and Dan appear to share when the man himself shuffles into the room; his uneven gait informing him that whatever painkillers he’d taken earlier had more than likely begun to wear off. 

As expected, whatever passed between them on the bed some hours ago now goes unmentioned, and instead, Dan gruffly asks. "Have you nicked some of my smokes from the living room?" 

Which yes, he does remember Jones getting light fingered with a packet or two when they’d gotten home the previous night. It says plenty that Dan looks neither surprised, nor annoyed, when Vince extends one long finger to the window ledge. There’s instead a resigned sigh, the offending cigarettes snatched up and tucked into the pocket of his jeans. 

“Could try buying your own, you know.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Vince replies, answer muffled as it is from where he has lost his own head in among the racks of hoodies, graphic tees,  _ one  _ suit jacket, and coats that make up this rather lackluster clothes collection. 

He had anticipated it might be a bit of a challenge, working with limited options, but he’d once built a whole outfit out of leaves. Rightly he hadn’t been too concerned about dressing to go out.

How wrong he’d been. 

The worry wasn’t so much related to his own image, either, being that he is trying his best to emulate someone else's. In some ways not being Vince was quite freeing. It was nice to shuck the weight of the Camden masses' expectations for perfection and just  _ be _ for a night or two _.  _

But in other ways; as much as Vince exists as part of a manufactured persona - he also just really likes his clothes and how he wears them regardless of whether other people give their opinions or not. He was already missing his ability to express himself through fashion with the limited tools Jones' wardrobe afforded him. 

One shirt catches his eye, most likely custom made as it is, and he tugs it free to hold to the light. Weighs up what it might be able to do for his figure if he could seek out the right jeans to go with it. 

“How long is it going to take you to get ready?” Dan asks, piercing his thought process enough that Vince turns his head just in time to watch him tug his shirt over his head. 

Another demonstration of his likeness to Vince's own flatmate, and an impressive display of his familiarity with Jones and complete lack of shyness. Howard was the same, and he supposes the mirror here was that both pairs had simply grown that used to the others company that they were perfectly comfortable to behave in a less than clothed manner in one another's presence. 

And as much as he is used to seeing Howard’s flesh on show (for a man usually as uptight as a nun in a brothel he really doesn’t mind getting his kit off) he still politely averts his eyes from Dan’s shirtless form as he begins the process of seeking out fresh clothes. 

“Uh, not long.” He pretends very hard to be scrutinizing his own shirt and  _ not  _ watching the shirtless man from the corner of his eye. Something told him Jones wasn’t the type to spend hours getting dressed, in any case. “Why, you in a hurry?” 

Dan snorts at him. “Not likely,” With the half glimpsed motion of a t-shirt being dragged over head, Dan is thankfully clothed once more. Though with two short steps he is very much in Vince’s space in order to lean past him and snatch a smart jacket from where it was hanging in among Jones’ clothes. “Merely trying to guess how drunk I can get while you faff on with your hair.” 

Vince turns a playful glare on the man. “Not really professional to show up pissed, is it?” 

To his credit, he does appear to take this thought on board, considers it a moment before he decides it is not even close to a concern for him. He gives his head a minute shake. “No, but then nothing Barely  _ ever _ does can be considered professional.” And luckily, before Vince is forced to try and reply to that, Dan is reaching for his wallet from the bedside table and limping from the room once more. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” 

Having already developed a healthy level of concern for Dan and his distinctly  _ un _ healthy habits, Vince is wary about leaving him alone with alcohol for any period of time. He dresses on a clock, something he is completely unused to doing but he makes work for the sake of not inducing Jones' wrath should he fail to properly care for Dan. 

The finished product makes him feel a lot younger than he has felt in many months. 

The jeans cling to him, the slim fit graphic t-shirt, the leather jacket he hastily pulls over the top. It’s as an after thought he grabs a collection of beaded bracelets to slip over his wrist. For the sake of looking the part, a lighter is shoved into his back pocket, along with his actual wallet - one of the few things they had not bothered to switch.

It’s as nice as it is terrifying to be reinventing himself like this overnight. This venture has at least brought some of his old clothes (that he has  _ of course _ not thrown away) back into the forefront of his mind. Perhaps some could be given new life by Jones himself, since the man clearly takes joy in making something unique out of old shirts. Some of the designs he’d noticed tonight were inspiring. 

But what it has also done is forced Vince back into a kind of style he equates with a period of his life where he wasn’t quite himself yet. 

When he’d been learning how best to express himself through no more than fancy shoes and some well placed accessories. The occasional wacky t-shirt was the closest thing he’d ever gotten to a fashion statement in those days. 

Don’t get him wrong, there are still days he looks through his expansive clothes collection and decides to go for a more lowkey look, but that’s always a choice  _ he _ makes. Having no other option but to do so felt a bit restricting, a lot like existing under the confinement of a green uniform and a sense of conformity he’d felt suffocated under some days. 

Vince’s clothes were as expressive as his face if you looked closely enough. And he tried his best with what he had available to make it work, but the end result still leaves him feeling a bit vulnerable and off centre when compared to his normally confident and outgoing self.

But what more could he do? 

Arriving in the kitchen he finds Dan has  _ two  _ cigarettes in his mouth at once, and he has in this instance forgone a mug at all and instead appears to have the bottle of vodka previously opened and half drained the night before in his hand. Open and a little more empty than Vince had last seen it. 

He looks  _ furious.  _

“You’re not gonna be pissy all night are you?” He slides straight past him and reaches for the kettle. Vince doesn’t usually drink coffee, he’s not sure he’s ever actually had it - much prefers a liquid sugar cup of tea and he's not sure Howard would actively _let_ him consume coffee if he could help it - but if he can’t use alcohol to get him through his socialisation then he might give Jones’ vice a chance. 

“Probably.” 

“Great.” 

The sarcasm in his tone isn’t missed, by Dan, but he watches him with barely concealed amusement as he stirs coffee into hot water. “You don’t have to come.” 

“And who’s gonna keep you out of trouble if I don’t?” 

Squinting at him, Dan just shrugs his shoulders. Once again that sense of him not caring what trouble he might get into nor who gets him out of it permeates the air. 

All things considered, there are aspects of Dan’s character that, while concerning, are also  _ hilarious  _ to Vince. This being a prime example of such an occurrence. He has become so used to seeing a double of this exact face having a fit over rule breaking, spouting nonsense about  _ Safe Fun.  _ Witnessing those tiny brown peepers glinting with mischief is nothing short of incredible. 

He cannot wait to see what kind of bad behaviour Howard’s double gets up to while wearing his face. 

It’s almost exciting enough to overtake the anxious twist to his stomach that he recognises as worry; he has no idea how he’s supposed to wrangle this man all night. 

Dan continues to smoke through his cigarettes in silence, gaze never leaving Vince as he piles sugar after sugar in the bitter liquid of his coffee and does his best to get through it without once giving away he is new to the taste.

It had been heavily implied by Jones himself that Dan would be using him as a walking support system tonight, which would be fine, had he not forgotten to ask exactly how he was expected to do that for him. He takes this time that they exist in companionable quiet to form his own opinions and plans. 

Firstly, having spent a day in his company and drawing his own conclusions, Vince is aware that contact is an option open to him. Where Howard can be funny about a comforting hand to the shoulder, or even a pat on the back, unless it is snuck past his radar, Dan seems to accept touch willingly. Secondly, trying to talk to him, whether this be serious or not, will result in silence almost eighty percent of the time, and thus, it may be best for him to maintain a detached attitude. Observe from afar and intervene when only necessary. Thirdly, this party in and of itself is going to be a great source of negativity for an already innately negative person. Vince is going to have to be the figurative shoulder to cry on; listen to him sneer about whoever is pissing him off and act as a human shield should the situation call for it. 

Lastly? Dan drinks a lot when in the house by himself. In a social environment full of angst like this, he may just be worse. Wherever possible, he should ensure the man doesn’t give himself alcohol poisoning. 

All in a day's work for Jones, he supposes. 

“We going then?” The coffee mug is set aside; already Vince’s insides feel like they’re lighting up as the caffeine gets to work. 

“Do we have to.” As much as he protests, Dan does set the vodka aside, pulls his jacket tighter around himself. 

“Yes, Dan.” Vince reaches out to tug at his arm like an eager child trying to lead their parents to a sweet shop. “Come on. Don’t be a bitch.” 

***

Approaching the place from streets away Vince can already hear a jarring baseline, feel it thudding through the concrete of the pavement. 

Each step they take, Dan’s shoulders gravitate higher and higher in agitation. The process of watching him get wound up is as uncomfortable as it is a little fascinating - if he’d thought he looked annoyed before then drawing closer to the venue drags him solidly into outrage. 

It shouldn’t be as surprising as it is to him that there’s a ridiculously long queue leading up to the door. It’s entirely populated by the kinds of people Vince would normally be pressed against on a Saturday night, and the fact Dan turns his nose up at the lot of them does not give him much confidence for their friendship surviving after this undercover mission was over. 

They’re greeted by a mousy looking man. One who can’t make eye contact due to his anxious nature the second Dan sidles up to him. “Alright, Mr Ashcroft!” He chirps, voice wobbling. He’s holding a clipboard; no doubt operating as a low budget doorman. On each of his shoulders there are burly bouncers. “Um, I didn’t know you’d be bringing a plus one.” 

“It’s fine, Toby.” Dan doesn’t wait to be told that it  _ is  _ actually fine. Takes off past him. It’s not like the measly man is going to do a single thing to stop him, either. Vince rushes hot on his heels to keep up before he’s the one dealing with the fallout. 

The source of Dan’s angst is obvious once they get inside. 

The space actually exists on a stretch of London street that Vince happens to know boasts relatively high end properties; the type of office spaces he always imagined rich people rented and used for meetings about how rich they were. Elite shops did well in a neighborhood like this. The core aesthetic was clean cut corners, sleek white surfaces, a false sense of perfection for people who - on the inside - were more than likely a bit more jagged and rough. 

Whatever specimen runs this joint has clearly gone to great lengths to rid it of any perfection at all. Anything that would make the place fit into one aesthetic has been gutted, and instead forced it painfully into another through the use of some rather crude DIY. Furniture is gone, leaving only open space that is currently operating as a dance floor. Pillars and support beams are covered in graffiti art the likes of which Vince thinks he has seen on the South Bank Graffiti Tunnel - only not as good. Bits of plywood and sheets of metal nailed up at random. It's a completely false imitation of grunge-street style, planned improperly and executed even worse. 

The nightmare doesn’t stop at the visuals either; the music is bouncy but it’s completely empty. 

Vince listens to all sorts of thudding beats while he’s out. Some of it’s good and some of it’s not, but at least he can find some essence or connection. Something human behind the sound that makes it come to life. 

This music is like a reanimated corpse. It doesn’t sing; it gargles and begs to be put out of its misery. 

And look. Vince is pretty self aware of his own less than desirable traits. He knows he’s shallow. He knows in some aspects many would consider him disingenuous - what with the way he flits about on the breeze of fashion and tries his hardest to achieve fame by wedging himself into everyone’s bands. 

But _ he _ knows it isn’t as bad as all that. 

His obsessions were born from a very sincere place. He  _ loves _ fashion. He  _ loves _ music. He wasn’t in it  _ just  _ for the fame regardless of what many might assume. 

Attention was enjoyable but it wasn’t his sole motivator when it came to clothes. The drive to reinvent himself with each new outfit was largely to do with his genuine love for the process of designing and experimenting with fashion. There was empowerment to be found in clothes, and pushing the boundaries of his own personal expression was something he only ever felt comfortable doing with fabrics. 

Some people express themselves through art or music, Vince’s voice came from what he wore. 

The same could be said about his music. He wanted to sing and dance with Howard because it made him happy - yeah it would be nice to get famous but was that his only goal? No. If he and Howard could pour a little bit of themselves into their tunes and feel proud of what they produced then it was a win in his books. Some of their best pieces have been booed off stage, did that matter to him? Not as much as it should. 

So yes, people can look at him and believe he is disingenuous but it was nothing to the level of what surrounded them. 

This was a screech to be noticed louder and more obnoxious than anything Vince could ever produce. 

“Fuck it, let’s go home.” Vince hopes how disgusted he feels is evident in his tone. They have not moved any further into the room than hovering at the edge and already he sees this night not ending well for at least one of them. 

“I wish that was an option.” Dan gripes, he reaches to snag Vince’s wrist and tug him gently in the direction of the bar. “It’s a free bar, though, and I need a drink.” 

“Shocking.” He’s getting a good idea of where Jones’ sarcasm and rough exterior might have developed from, because Dan keeps sending him these looks like he’s done something amazing and it’s doing wonders for encouraging his bratty behaviour. 

“Oh shut up.” Dan huffs, amused. 

Despite it being a bit packed in here, there is plenty of space for Dan to get straight to the front of the makeshift bar that is placed in the far most corner of the room. Vince doesn’t go far, hovers dutifully by his shoulder like anymore than arms length away would have dire consequences. 

That’s when he hears a familiar female voice. “Jones?” 

He turns on his heel, finds Claire frowning at him with open curiosity. She’s let her hair down, literally, but her eyes still swim with a draining combination of stress and being utterly knackered. “What you doing here?” 

Despite opening his mouth to answer, he isn’t entirely sure what he’s going to say. It’s not like he wants to out Dan for needing moral support. Nor does he know exactly what Claire understands about her own brother and his perpetual annoyance over his current employment. 

Thankfully, Dan must hear her question, and promptly yells. “Piss off, Claire.” 

If he had the time, as well as fixing Jones and Dan, he’d probably want to have a look into whatever was causing so much bad blood between the siblings too. 

Claire doesn’t rise to her brother’s bait, instead leans into Vince’s personal space, dipping her head close and muttering. “Don’t let him drink too much?” 

Clearly the Ashcroft sister was a tad more observant than either Jones, Dan, or indeed Vince, had given her credit for. She knew  _ exactly _ why he was here. “I’ll try.” He promises, mentally corrects the number of people likely to come after him if Dan falls into mischief to  _ two.  _

As if sensing he is being talked about, Dan reappears at his shoulder. Presses his body so close to Vince’s that Claire takes an intentional step back. The man may as well be growling possessive threats the way he angles his larger frame against Vince’s smaller one and sets his jaw down at his little sister. 

The possessive behaviour does it for him, but only long enough for him to remind himself that swooning was not in his job description tonight. 

“Please behave yourself tonight,” Claire says, and it doesn’t sound like a request. “Oh. And Nathan is looking for you, wants to chat about a full season.” 

Vince doesn’t have to look to know Dan’s lip is curling in frustration, can feel it rolling off him in waves. Thoughtlessly, channeling his inner Jones, he shoots his arm around the larger man's waist - now confident the comfort would be welcome rather than shrugged off like it might be at home. Not that he'll be able to hold Dan back like this even if he wanted to. 

Claire drops her eyes to the point of contact, scrunches her features like she’s witnessed something a bit distasteful and then she struts off into the writhing crowd. 

“You’re gonna do yourself a mischief if you keep on doing that with your face.” Vince berates as soon as she’s gone. Dan’s reply is lost to the repetitive drone of music; he holds out a glass for Vince to take. Panicked, he shoots a silent question to his companion. Jones promised that Dan wouldn’t hand him alcohol, but he still finds himself worrying he might. 

“It’s lemonade.” Dan rolls his eyes, presses the glass at him again. “I’m not letting you have Pepsi after you  _ just _ had a coffee - all that caffeine will do  _ you  _ a mischief.” 

“You’re a spoil sport.” Though Vince accepts the glass with the smile of a man who cannot wait to tell Jones he was wrong. It appears that Dan notices just as much as Jones himself does about the other. 

And he  _ was _ right, Vince found himself edging on the side of twitchy anxious behaviour thanks to all the rush one cup of coffee had given him. He wasn’t sure a caffeinated soft drink on top of that would do him anything other than damage. 

Vince honestly expects Dan to disappear from him then, mingle in the crowds and treat Jones like the spare part he seems to think he is. But he does the complete opposite, it appears for all the world like Dan doesn’t want to be distant from him just as Vince is reluctant to leave him - and granted Vince’s insistence is born from his concern that Dan will fall apart without his support system, it’s less clear what Dan’s motivation is.

Vince thinks he might have an idea if the way he nudges him back to the secluded edge of the room and informs him,  _ “I can honestly say I’d rather be listening to your racket about now.” _ is anything to go by.

***

Dan’s alcoholism might be a concern but on the upside, however wrong this sentiment may be, it appears to be the gateway for the man opening himself up a little. 

Vince had made himself comfortable in a shadowy corner some time ago and since neglected to move. It gave him a nice vantage point over the room, so that whenever Dan left his side (which only happens in short bursts of time, he notices) to go to the bar or when he is  _ forced  _ to engage someone he knows of in conversation, then he is still able to track him carefully with his gaze. 

He has also noticed that no one makes an effort to acknowledge his presence. Not a soul could care less about him, secluded as he is, and Vince is quite content to return the favour. 

Typically, it’s something of an endeavor for a person like Vince to lose himself to a crowd. Move unnoticed between the bodies. Adopt a sense of anonymity. But in this social circle Jones calls normal, he’s not the one everyone is fawning over whenever he enters a room. Nope, in this universe, that’s Dan. 

Which is a small shock to the system, seeing Howard’s face be subject to any amount of pretty girls trailing him about the room. Mostly, these young women are people Vince recognises from the queue outside; trendies who no doubt know of Dan through whatever work he does here, all fawning over him and hoping to gain his attention and good favour. All they achieve is a pretty rude dismissal or a barely grunted half word, though, which makes a sense of smug pride bloom in his gut. 

If anything it’s nice to know that not only does Howard’s double get women, he gets his  _ pick  _ of the women. Perhaps the universe had cocked up and rather than splitting their flirting skills evenly had dumped it all on Dan. 

One thing he knows for sure, he can tolerate Howard’s face doing a lot of things on Dan’s body but getting off with a fit girl would not be great. 

Thankfully, each and every one of the hopeful ladies is brushed off in favour of the man returning to his (Jones’) side like a homing pigeon. Landing dutifully with a fresh drink for him and their shoulders pressed close together. 

“I hate these things,” He grumbles on one occasion, placing a fresh drink in Vince’s like the true gentleman he is. 

“Certainly doesn’t look that way.” Vince had intended the comment to tease, but as it falls out of him it feels closer to a petulant jibe. 

Dan grins crookedly at him. As the night had progressed, beer bottles had been traded in for small glasses with amber liquid in it - no doubt something with a much higher percentage. This change had brought with it a shift in attitude for the larger man, who Vince is learning, becomes a lot more chatty when drunk. 

Their conversation had gone from being stilted, as was the standard for them, and had blossomed instead into playful teasing the likes of which Vince is more than familiar with in his own partnership. 

“You jealous?” Dan teases. 

Vince is glad of the low light in the room because his cheeks heat in what he’s sure is a completely ridiculous shade of pink. “Don’t be daft.” He snaps. “Just sayin’, you seem pretty content letting girls follow you about like lost puppies.” 

“Content is not the word I’d use.” 

“Oh really?” Vince turns his body, leans his shoulder against the wall rather than his back to better face Dan and scrutinize his face. “What word would you use then, Mr Writer?” 

A moment for thought, lips pursing in concentration. Brows furrowed. Then, angling his face downwards to deliver a half-smirk, Dan answers. “I’d say I’m only  _ tolerating _ everyone that crosses my path, almost  _ all  _ of the time.” 

“Well, I guess I’ll see myself home then.” Vince pushes from the wall, intends to commit to the bit enough to begin walking away but before he can a hand darts out to circle his wrist. One swift tug is all it takes for him to not only be back at Dan’s side but significantly closer than he had been a moment previous. 

“Don’t be like that, you drama queen.” And then, in a display of utter sincerity that nearly makes Vince’s knees buckle, he utters. “Thank you for coming with me tonight.” 

Surprisingly, what nearly takes his legs out from under him is not his own reaction to the sentiment. Instead, it was the intense wave of understanding he suddenly has about why Jones continued to stick around. Was this the only way Jones ever had a  _ real _ conversation with his housemate? When he was drunk enough to let his guard down and behave openly towards him. 

Did Jones get by day to day waiting for moments like these, and why could he understand that on a rather intense personal level. He who currently existed for the moments in between the arguments where he and Howard managed to share laughter. The small moments where his friend would look at him and seem truly happy. 

What a pair of prized idiots. A quartet of utter tits. 

The thought makes him sad and furious all at once for every single one of them, what potential they’re all wasting. He opens his mouth with the intention to scold him. Or perhaps offer comfort. Hell, maybe both. But he’s interrupted. 

Someone bounces over to them exclaiming “Danbo!” and in his haste to not be in the same vicinity as this person, Dan makes a swift dodge to the left and is lost to the masses. Before Vince can turn and follow him, he’s stopped with a heavy hand on his shoulder and the person who drove Dan away exclaims “Hey, DJ Jones, yeah?” He knocks him hard on the shoulder. “Didn’t think I’d see you here!”

Two things happen all at once. Firstly Vince decides this must be Nathan Barley, given the fact the man has a literal entourage following him, and at least three of them are holding cameras as if filming a documentary. That combined with the fact Dan wouldn’t even entertain breathing the same air as him was a pretty big giveaway. The second is he comes to the conclusion he is about as likely to want to talk to him as Dan is, and he reaches up to pluck the hand from his shoulder with an expression of utter distaste, before turning and following in the direction of his charge. 

And normally Vince is so wrapped up in trying not to upset people in order to maintain his own popularity, but right now all he can think is  _ find Dan, find Dan, find Dan.  _

It takes him a second to find him again. Weaving through crowds, and until this moment it hadn’t been as obvious how much he relied on the right group of people and an alcopop or two to keep his socialisation battery full, because he was already finding the press of unfamiliar bodies a little bit suffocating. 

He finds Dan lingering in by the toilets. His face looks like thunder. 

“He gone?” 

“For now.” Vince replies, rolling his eyes. He hadn’t even spoken a word to the man but he’s almost certain he knows why Dan doesn’t want to. “You know he’ll only come looking for you again later.” 

“Yeah well,” Dan sighs heavily. “He’s paying for the free bar, so in my own way, I’m getting back at him.” 

“You’re literally a complete nightmare, do you know that?” 

Dan simply grins at him as if he had been complimented to the highest degree. “Smoke?” 

Fuck it, why not. It was worth it just to see if the nicotine would bring him down from wherever the caffeine had sent him to. He bobs his head in agreement of the offer. 

***

Barley does not bother them again for some time. Whether this is because he is so wrapped up gloating to his grovelling documentary crew about what a huge success he is going to be, or because Dan is insistent on leading Vince from one shadowy corner of the room to the next in order to avoid being caught, is up for debate. 

It is obvious he is still seeking them out, though. At one point they avoid him by only a hair's width, Vince spotting the entourage of idiots coming their way and turning to Dan with a rushed exclamation of  _ “Shit, go, go go!” _ And the pair of them, hand in hand and giggling like school children, rush for the relative safety of an opposite corner. 

Dan continues to steep himself in alcohol and with that comes more ease of conversation - and perhaps unsurprisingly, lowered inhibitions that mean Dan’s penchant for contact ramps up tenfold. 

As he already knew, touch was as much a language to this pair as silent looks between himself and Howard were. It had taken a bit of time to adjust but as Dan gets less and less concerned with where exactly he’s placing his hands, he finds adaptation is a distant memory in place of just going with it. 

Dan slips his hand to the small of his back when guiding him around the room; or helpfully reaches up to brush hair from his face as he talks. Once going as far as resting an arm around his shoulders for no other reason than using him as a support post. It’s an interesting quirk, one that makes Vince’s stomach flip each time, but interesting nonetheless. 

Frankly, they’re both lucky Vince isn’t drinking too or they’d definitely be in a pickle by now, what with him being familiar in all the right places and managing to give him what he feels he’s lacking in his own relationship at the moment. 

Sober him has enough semblance of sanity to remember it’s not  _ Dan’s _ hands he wants on him, and the sense to know it isn’t really  _ his  _ nape Dan is trailing thoughtless fingers over either. It’s Jones’. 

“Where’ve you gone.” Dan pinches at his cheeks in the most ridiculous fashion that Vince can’t help but to chuckle at him. “Not often you look this thoughtful.”

“How dare you, I can think about things.” 

Dan squints his eyes, cocks his head to one side with his own expression of contemplation. “You’re thinking about your decks aren’t you.” 

Not even close, but he hums his agreement anyway. “You got me.” 

“I know you too well.” Which, as Vince is coming to understand it, is a completely correct summation. 

Not that he gets the chance to get into that on behalf of Jones; he has the full intention of grilling him there and then about their relationship angst. But for the second time that evening any attempt at serious conversation is interrupted by the walking headache that is Nathan Barley. 

“Hey, Dan, I’ve been looking for you all night!” Even the way he talks is so excessive and put upon Vince finds himself rolling his eyes. Dan remains silent in the face of the intrusion, swallows whatever is left in his glass down in one gulp. His hand drops to Vince’s waist, fingers fisting in his shirt in his drunken frustration. 

It speaks to a lot that no one in the vicinity seems to bat an eye at the strangely codependent relationship Dan and Jones exhibit so openly to the world. Whether either of them care about the opinions of others is another matter. Probably not, if what he knew of them already was anything to go by. 

Undeterred by the pair's silence, Barley goes on. “You work on the pilot was pretty fucking Mexico, my friend.” He somehow manages to make even that praise sound patronising. “Everyone’s going nuts for it.” 

Vince may as well not be there as far as Barley is concerned; the man is talking right past him, as if he isn’t standing with his shoulder pressed close to Dan’s side and the larger man’s body angled towards him in return. He returns the favour by trying his best to block out the man’s existence and focusing on Dan’s reactions in case he’s going to be required to break up a fight.

Horribly, Dan looks more  _ sad  _ to hear whatever Barley is saying than he does annoyed. His features pinched with the familiar swathes of internal turmoil he’s used to seeing on Howard when he is lost in one of his self deprecating moods and no hope of digging himself out. It’s somehow much harder for him to witness than anger would have been, he reaches behind himself to where Dan’s fingers fist in the material of his shirt and latches his hand around the skin of his wrist like he might be able to anchor him in place. 

He still hasn’t said a thing, but his chest heaves with a deep breath indicative of him attempting to keep his cool. Barley is undeterred. 

“But I have been speaking to some of the higher ups,” Vince winces into his soft drink, afraid he’s about to hear Dan get sacked. “And we reckon we might need you to do a bit  _ more  _ if we go to series.” 

“What?” This is apparently much worse news than if he  _ had _ been fired. 

“Well, you did  _ technically  _ sign a contract, Preach.” For a man making a thinly veiled threat, Nathan does not look nearly as confident as he should. He tries to play it cool, slides his hands in his pockets, but Vince reads the motion as an attempt to cover how intimidated he is by Dan. “Hate to have to make a big deal out of it.” 

“You little-” 

“Dan.” Vince finds his hand planted in the centre of Dan’s chest at the same instance Barley takes a large step backwards. “It’s not worth it.” 

“Listen to your little DJ, yeah?,” And that comment alone has Vince shooting a warning glare at the meek shape of the man. He has gone from a poor attempt at pulling rank to hunched and terrified in the blink of an eye. Staring up at Dan’s larger frame with barely concealed fear, he swallows thickly. 

Fear is an entirely logical reaction when you consider Dan’s size, and the fact Vince - a mere slip of a man - was the only thing standing between Barley and a beating. But having only known him a short time, Vince is almost certain that Dan’s bark is far worse than his bite. 

Realistically Nathan has nothing to worry about on that front. Until he utters, “I’m trying to do you a favour, Dan. I  _ am  _ your boss, remember.” 

And that’s when Vince comes to the decision that if Jones were here he would not stand for this kind of backchat. In his opinion, while Jones has a tendency to bark; his bite is almost certainly the thing to be afraid of. 

“Alright, you wiry mole man, run back to mummy.” He snaps, rounding on the man so his back is to Dan. “Before I boot you back there myself.” 

Vince doesn’t often get the chance to get feisty in his own life. He pleases people, after all, but he was capable of it in the right circumstances, and he was certainly already protective enough of Jones and by extension Dan that he would go toe to toe with this smear trying to make their lives difficult. 

Nathan blinks at him like he isn’t really sure what to make of it all, and then inexplicably starts to laugh. “Oh I get it!” He says then, darting eyes between Dan and Vince respectively. “Is this some of that cockney business? That’s  _ brilliant _ , what do you think about being in my show DJ? Proper platform for your music, yeah? I'll even give you some tips, free of charge, mentor you properly."

It’s worth noting Vince isn’t the delicate flower that Howard likes to proclaim he is. It’s just not very often he finds the need to square up to someone the way he does to Nathan in that moment. One firm step and he’s very much in his space. Given that he is not wearing heeled boots as he normally would be, and is instead sporting his doubles well loved trainers, he is a fraction shorter than the other man but it doesn’t deter him. Feet planted, shoulders squared, he narrows his gaze in a way he last remembers doing to frighten off Howard’s school bullies in their teens. 

“I’d rather shit in my hands and clap, mate.” He says, calmer than his posture would insinuate. Nathan casts nervous glances at his camera crew. “Now piss off.” 

Like a clever little boy, Barley does. 

Even as he goes, Vince finds himself stuck in place like a dog on guard, ensuring there’s no chance he’s going to come back and take more digs at either of his perceived charges. The whole night had been adding up to something pretty brilliant, he thought. Dan was comfortable enough in his drunken state that Vince would have been confident probing for answers, and now he was vibrating with frustration. 

Neither of this pair deserved a difficult existence such as this, and he  _ hated  _ that they continued to suffer through it. 

“Hey,” Dan’s at his back, tugging on his wrist like he’s pulling him back from the edge of an abyss. In many ways he is. Vince exists on sunshine, this thick sense of disgust swimming in his veins is too much. 

His hands are shaking.

“What a prick.” He seethes, certain the lingering effects of extra strength caffeine in his system isn’t helping how tightly he's wound after that interaction. How on earth does Jones drink multiple cups and not burst out of his skin. 

“Come on.” Dan doesn’t say anything more than that gentle order. Uses his confident grip on his slim wrist to pull him in the direction of the exit. 

“What you doing?” Vince asks, yet he doesn’t resist the drag. He’s led out of the venue, and into the biting chill of the late night air. Dan’s steps are uneven, but he does not stumble as much as one should after the amount he has had to drink. Other than the hindrance of a limp his steps are confident and sure, leading him further from the noise of the party. 

They don’t stop until they’re in the relatively secluded alcove of an alleyway. 

Dan tugs him out of the view of the street. Plants a hand on each of his shoulders and observes him from head to toe with such concern Vince would think he was the one Barley had been threatening. “Okay?” 

Words abandon him in the wake of his ebbing adrenaline. All he can do is nod his head in a rather unconvincing manner given that the motion is a jarring uncomfortable thing. Dan cocks an eyebrow at him like he knows he is a liar. He probably does. 

“Breathe properly.” He instructs in a manner much too calm for how he slurs, drunk. One large palm plants confidently just below his ribs. “From here. I’d count for you, but I can’t do numbers right now.” 

A laugh startles from his chest. If he were more coherent he’d probably be very interested in how used to this Dan appears to be, but as it is, he is reeling in his own reactions and decides to file that bit of information away for investigation at a later time. 

“I’m fine.” He croaks. He isn't actually about to have a panic attack, Vince’s issue lies more in too many unfamiliar circumstances collecting into one overwhelming evening. The seriousness of it all is in it’s own way surreal to a man who is more used to hedgehogs stealing his shoes and alley cats gossiping with him. But the way Dan is still looking at him like he’s a ticking time bomb, he understands that he isn’t being believed. “Just annoyed. Really, I’m okay.” 

“Sure?” 

“Hmm.” And this time when he nods its a more self-assured motion. Even if the comfort wasn’t correct for the problem, the intent was there and it worked wonders to smooth out Vince’s ruffled feathers. “Thank you.” 

“What am I good for if not to stop you beating up the man who has my balls in a vice.”

Vince huffs, amused. “Remind me again why you stopped me?” 

“Because as amusing as it would’ve been to watch you break his nose,” Dan does that thing again, touches him. Brushes reverent fingers over his cheek. Looks at him like he’s something incredible. Jones must surely be  _ blind  _ to not notice this deep affection Dan carries for him. “You’d regret it afterwards.” 

In that, had and Jones were identical. He’s not sure how he’d feel if he had actually swung for the man inside - it would certainly be a story to tell Howard, he supposes. But not at all an act that fits into his own self image, either. 

Dan’s palm settles on his cheek, and Vince gets the feeling he should detangle himself from this embrace that is shifting from friendly into something distinctly more  _ intimate,  _ but he’s pinned down by the intense stare of the other. Free hand gripping his hip bruisingly, Vince finds himself pulled up onto his toes in the same moment Dan dips his head and crushes their lips together. 

A few seconds. 

The briefest of things. 

But it’s enough. 

Dan’s mouth covers his, sloppy and tasting like whiskey. Lips pull at him hesitantly, the only time Vince has known this man be anything other than defiantly confident in anything he does. 

He isn’t reciprocating, but he isn’t resisting either. Hangs there limp as Dan does his best to encourage him to take part. 

And it’s not that it’s a bad kiss, it’s a pretty great kiss actually. Despite being a bit drunk and obviously lusting after someone Vince  _ isn’t _ , the man knows what he’s doing. No. It’s more the fact that no matter how lost in the excitement of Dan’s character he’d been… he’s not the one Vince wants to be snogging in a filthy alleyway right now. 

Not when he’s got his own mess of a person waiting unknowingly at home for him, devoted in his own way when Vince cares to think about it. And Dan has his own ball of sunshine ready to hand him everything on a silver platter. 

Two flattened palms on Dan’s chest give a gentle push, and even that small action is enough for Dan to take the hint and begin a bashful retreat.

“Dan-” 

“Fuck.” Dan doesn’t let him get out any comforts or questions, doesn’t try to explain himself away either. His only intention at the moment is escaping. “Fuck. I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have-” 

“No it’s not that,” He’s trying to take a step back and in his desperation to not let him hide from this, Vince reaches out and snags two healthy handfuls of his shirt. “Just. Wait a second.” 

Composing himself takes a second. Mostly because he has no idea how to explain this away to Jones when they talk on the phone in the morning.  _ “Thought you might like to know Dan tried it on in an alleyway, he’s definitely in love with you by the way, how crazy is that?”  _

The more immediate of his concerns is how vulnerable Dan looks. Eyes glistening like he’s expecting some of that earlier displayed anger to come racing back forth and pounce on him. If Vince handled this wrong then he may as well call it quits on their whole relationship because a mistake now would be difficult to come back from. 

“You surprised me.” He says. Dan is still very much in his personal space, thanks to the way Vince is clinging to him. It’s as grounding as it is distracting. “Is it the fighting with Barley that does it for you, or are you just really into alleyways?” 

Humour was the only thing he really knew how to do with any kind of confidence. Luckily, it serves to make Dan’s shoulders loose a fraction of their tension. He still doesn’t say a damn thing though, just watches him with the look of a kicked puppy. 

Vince wants to take him home. And not like that. A protective twinge he’s always felt for his own northern freak has been triggered. The place he’s going to feel most comfortable is the House of Jones and so logically, that’s where they need to be. It’s where Dan needs to be. And what Vince needs is to begin to properly understand the walking mystery that is Dan Ashcroft. 

So far he’d not done much to uphold his end of his bargain with Jones, and perhaps he should look at this as an opportunity. 

“Come on.” He orders, easily laces his fingers with Dan. If he had his way he wasn’t going to let go of him until they got back to the flat. 

It’s a good thing Jones has his housemate as well trained as he is, because dutifully, the man just follows where he leads. 

***

“Drink this.” 

Dan takes the glass of water thrust at him but he doesn't even try to drink it yet. Instead he cradles it against his chest, bleary gaze tracking Vince back and forth as he paces the length of the living room; all his excess energy trying it’s best to escape in the only way it can at the moment. The way he slumps on the sofa he looks a little like an unruly teen waiting to be scolded by his parents for being caught drinking. 

"You're making me antsy doing that." He grumbles, and it only serves to make Vince snort sardonic laughter into the air because it’s the first thing he's said since the alleyway and  _ that's _ what he's gone with. 

"You're unbelievable." He finds himself sighing, much too fondly. "Both of us are unbelievable."

"Can say that again." Finally, Dan sips hesitantly at his water. 

Vince hasn't got it in him to try and be subtle anymore. At this point his own curiosity was threatening to drown him, getting answers for Jones was becoming a secondary concern. "You never talk. Not properly, not until you're smashed and then you- you just-" 

"Snog you?" 

"Yeah. That."

Dan at least has the good grace to look ashamed. For once he won't make eye contact. And okay, Vince might think the drinking is a problem but if this is the only chance he's going to get to make him be honest about his thoughts and feelings then surely he would be a fool to waste it. 

"What's going on, Dan, I thought I knew you but…" He didn't even have to try to remember verbatim what Jones had said. It had been swimming in his head since he offered to do this, the sad little look and his uttered words. "I'm not sure I do anymore."

Nothing. The only sound is Vince’s caffeinated, over emotional, ragged breathing. 

"For  _ fucks sake _ Dan, say something or I'm going to lose my mind."

Dan picks at the fabric of the sofa. “This an ultimatum, then?” 

Not what he’d been going for but if it’s going to motivate him then he is pretty sure he can make that declaration on Jones’ behalf. “Yes.” 

Lips purse, head bobs in a nod, like he’d seen this coming all along. And he says, “Was wondering how long it’d take before that happened.” 

It takes everything in Vince not to deliver the man a healthy smack. He’s outraged on Jones’ behalf for a start, that Dan is capable of staring what he wants in the face and letting it walk out of his life - for no obvious reason other than he is so wrapped up in his own angst he doesn’t spare a thought for Jones’ mutual suffering. 

And while inebriation seems to help Dan talk, it also apparently makes it that much more likely for him to retreat into his own emotions and push the people around him away. “I don’t know what I thought I could accomplish.” He says; less in character and more a genuine exclamation. 

He drops heavily onto the adjacent sofa, claps both hands to his face and rubs at his aching tired eyes. Sighs into his own palms. Briefly. he debates going home, because he’s wound up in a way only  _ one other person _ on the whole planet knows how to coax him back from. 

“You’re still here?” 

“Yeah, Dan, yeah I am.” He grumbles, drops his palms long enough to roll his head on his neck and stare over to where the man is gazing at him with such confusion it makes his heart ache. Dan really thought he was going to leave him. Just strut out of his life. “God knows why.” 

Maybe he really wasn't as well equipped to deal with the complex man that was Dan Ashcroft as he first thought. Howard’s always going on about having a rich inner life but this? This made Howard’s dark fractured side look like a teddy bear on laughing gas. Cute. Joyful. Uncomplicated. 

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, staring down at his own fingernails and pretending he isn’t raging at the double across the room. He can feel the other man’s eyes on him too, watching, assessing him, likely trying to decide if all this angst was worth it. 

“You know I don’t do well at talking.” 

Okay, so he’s trying. Which is something. Vince sits forward, gazes over at him earnestly. “Yeah, I know. But we can’t keep going like this, can we?” Dan shrugs with all the energy of a sulking teen reluctant to answer to what he’s done wrong. “And I’m not asking for a lot here. I’m just not a fucking mind reader and I’d like to know what’s going on in that broody brain of yours sometimes.” 

Watching the cogs turn in Dan’s face is like waiting for a jury to come back with a verdict. He hovers at the edge of his seat, praying he’s going about this the right way to patch up what, upon closer inspection, is more than just a bit of a rift in their friendship. 

By no means is Vince convinced this whole thing will be fixed by a single conversation. Nor will several conversations from him, an unknowing outsider, help. But if he can get his foot in the door on Jones’ behalf then hopefully the man can return with a jumping off point and then… well, the only way is up from this mess, isn’t it? 

“It’s easier when I’m drunk.” Dan’s voice snaps him to attention, as he says it he waves one big hand to himself as if in demonstration of the point. 

“What is?” 

“All of it.” Dan admits, looks for all the world like it’s the most painful thing he’s ever had to do. “Existing.” 

And Vince’s heart gives such a painful clench that he almost bursts into tears right then. God they were so broken. Both of them. He doesn’t say anything though, too afraid of interrupting the courage Dan has built. “I don’t like it, but I don’t know how else to…” More gesturing. For a writer he seems to struggle with his words. 

Vince, carefully, extracts himself from his own sofa and plants himself beside Dan. Offers comfort the way he’s coming to understand Dan prefers, lands a hand in his large one and gives it a squeeze. It works. “Every day I convince myself I’m going to stop and then I just… Don’t.” 

Vince nods his head, not that he had any experience of anything of this magnitude. The most serious thing he’s ever had to cope with was an intense one sided infatuation for his best friend all through his teen years. It was almost like Jones and Dan lived in a completely separate world to him. One that was harsher, jagged at the edges and at risk of cutting you up as you moved through it. 

“When I’m like this I don’t have to think.” 

“Dan,” Vince holds his large hand in both of his smaller ones. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be bladdered to talk to me.” The man shrugs at him. Vince adds, “We can work on the rest of your existential mess after.” 

As it happens, humour was a valid coping mechanism for both sides. Dan gives his hand a squeeze, tugs him to his side and throws an arm over his shoulder. He settles there, content this silence was perhaps the other man's way of agreeing with him. 

He has to strain to hear the utterance of, “Please don’t leave.” 

It’s a broken plea. Vince feels himself well up. “I’m not going to,” A promise he’s sure Jones would approve of. “But please, stop pushing me out.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” 

Sincerity was never his strong suit either, thus he finds it completely understandable that Dan then chooses to hide his face in the crown of his head rather then look him in the face after sharing a brief moment of real vulnerability. To some, it may not sound like much, but to Vince, it felt like progress. 

“Are you going to forget this in the morning?” He asks, suspicious if this was also part of the pattern Jones suffered from. Drunk sincerity followed by sober indifference. 

“No.” Is spoken into his hair. “I never forget anything you tell me you know. ‘M just a bit of a coward.” 

Vince is losing count of how many ‘ _ I told you so’ _ s he’s going to be able to lay on his doppelganger in the morning. “Tha’s okay, Dan. I think I might be a bit of a coward too.” 

“Except when it comes to Barley.” The other teases. He gets a gentle swat to his stomach for his efforts. 

“Well that’s different, he deserves it, the dickhead.” Following this trail of banter they have found themselves on, Vince turns his head to peer up at Dan with a fond smile. “Does that mean I can ask you real questions now. Like, why you always so pissy with Clair lately?”

Dan rolls his eyes, shoves him away from their cuddle with a barely concealed smirk. “By all means, Jones, don’t hold back on being nosey.” 

“We’re having real conversations Dan.” 

The man snickers at him. “Good to know you’re still the same kid I met a lifetime ago that sticks his nose into everyone’s business.” 

Jones’ retelling of their first meeting certainly hadn’t painted that picture, but it makes him beam nonetheless. “And you’re still a grumpy drunk.” He pushes himself to his feet, palms offered to Dan from where he stands above him. “Come on, I’m putting you to bed.” 

“Kinky.” Dan utters sarcastically, but he sets his empty water glass aside and allows Vince to haul him to his feet anyway. 

“Yeah, because I  _ really  _ get off on being your designated sober friend.” An eye roll later and he’s pressing at Dan’s back. Nudging him in the direction of the bedroom. 

If it wasn’t so early in the morning he’d be on the phone to Jones already; they definitely had plenty to talk about. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my formal apology to Vince Noir, I am really putting the boy through it. I would apologise to Dan too but I feel like... he's sorta used to it? 
> 
> That being said, both our doppelgangers have now officially made progress, wonder how long they can keep at it, hmm?


	7. Face what's in front of ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All parties must deal with the morning after the night before. Vince finds himself fighting in Jones' corner and Jones makes a mistake.

The problem with having a sleep schedule as erratic as Jones’, was that even if he was tired enough to fall into a slumber-- burnt out after days awake and crashing from way too many legal stimulants-- his body simply wasn’t accustomed enough to the rest to allow him to remain asleep for too long. 

After much too short a time he always finds himself blinking awake, body jittery for another fix. 

It’s less than ideal that, even laying in among Vince’s sheets, the same cycle repeats itself. Knowing what he needs and being unable to provide himself it only makes it that much more of an irritation. 

On the upside; if this little adventure into Vince’s life goes on for much longer, then he may have broken not one but  _ two  _ habits he often considers stopping. Any attempts to do so in the past were usually given up on within a day-- but that had everything to do with his need to replace the hole his other vices had left with more socially acceptable versions. 

Caffeine and nicotine really weren’t that bad in comparison. 

Wary of waking Howard, he sighs heavily into the dark. Jones has to squint in order to make out the shape of the analogue clock hung on the wall above Howard’s bed; hands indicating it is only just ticking over to 4am. 

Were he in his natural habitat then this time would be one he welcomed with open arms; embracing it like an old friend. They knew each other well, the early morning and Jones, met up a few times a week and caught up with one another over the low thrum of his unfinished projects and the stink of cigarette smoke. Typically this time of morning is one he equated with true artistic freedom, given that Dan would be passed out in some area of the flat, be it the bed or the sofa, and Jones therefore free to make as much racket as he pleased without worry of waking him. 

He was lucky in that, even though Dan was openly not a fan of Jones’ selected genre of music, he never criticises what he makes past genuine constructive comments. Still, there was something human living inside Jones’ chest that meant he created best when he wasn’t overthinking if Dan liked it. 

Not as easy to do anything with his predawn energy here though. Not when the soft snores of another person were less a comfort and more of a reminder to stay in character at all times lest he be caught out. 

Howard doesn’t strike him as a particularly heavy sleeper, Jones doesn’t even want to risk trying to slide from the bed and exit the room, never mind whipping out some of those instruments out there. 

For a while his only option is to remain prone on his side; eyes locked on the lump of a form Howard makes in the dark. 

Mostly, that’s all he can think about. Howard, that is. 

A hopelessly complicated man. Though, he comes as a breath of fresh air for Jones, who is more used to dealing with a man much more lost to the turbulent seas of his own situation. Dan was a shattered thing at the best of times, one you were almost certainly going to cut yourself on as you gather up his shards and try to glue them back together again. 

Howard wasn’t shattered, at least not yet, but he was a little bit cracked in some pretty delicate places. The kind of places Vince held in the palm of his hand without even knowing; needed to learn to take better care of. 

Which he’s sure is a sentiment that went both ways. Even a sunshine child was bound to have dark clouds hanging over them; put there by his taller half. 

Perhaps a little wrongly, the thought of the two of them does bring a small grin to his face. Mostly because Jones held so much hope for the pair of them that he couldn’t help himself but to smile about it. They had certainly been on the brink of something catastrophic but with his help? They may just make it, and he was pleased for them. He really was.

They were so obviously in love but both about as emotionally competent as teaspoons. How they’d gone on living in denial for this long was  _ astonishing  _ to him. He’d have thought the man of action Howard had-- on more than one occasion-- professed to be would have said something about how he felt by now. 

Or even Vince. A walking manifestation of confidence. The socialite charm he exudes was no doubt enough to get him anything and any _ one  _ he wanted… so why hadn’t he made a move on the man who clearly wanted him back? 

It’s a mess, but it’s a rather sweet kind of mess. A romcom in itself, if you asked him. 

Which brings him back to the icy slip of guilt that had been slowly spreading in the pit of his stomach since the very first conversation he’d shared with Howard Moond. 

Because he was actually  _ incredibly  _ fond of Howard. 

Which is mostly just to do with the fact that, upon agreeing to this switch, he had not expected to discover that he held so much in common with Dan’s double. Their shared love of creating untypical music with frankly bizarre methods, for one. But even as he’d gotten to know him there was more to be found. 

They both operated as the more responsible halves of their duos. Vince a bit too immature and Dan a bit too  _ messy _ to really take care of themselves without the aid of a better half to willingly look after them. 

He may look like Vince but a chunk of his personality resonated with Howard. Reserved yet excitable in the right circumstances. Proud. Introverted. Unappreciated creators. 

It was perhaps why in the first day of their acquaintance Jones had begun to worry that he was in trouble of really wanting to pursue Howard; he was attractive and kind, and the care he took with him was heart clenchingly compassionate. 

But after sitting with him last night and finally having a genuine conversation it became clear even if Jones was interested in Howard romantically, he’d never be looked at twice while Vince was still an option. Hell, Vince could  _ not  _ be an option and he’d still not be able to get his shoe in the door. Howard was beyond infatuated with his ‘little man’. 

And, the whole experience had helped him come to the realisation that everything he was projecting onto Howard was more likely a reflection of his own situation. 

The flip of his stomach he feels every time he looks at this man almost certainly has everything to do with how  _ familiar _ he was. Wishful thinking on his part, he thinks, that he so clearly wants something in his own life and here is a facsimile of  _ who _ he wants it from, offering it all on a silver platter. 

Being around Howard is just helping him come to terms with what he should have figured out ages ago… that he’s a little bit in love with Dan. 

The St. Christopher around his neck is cool as he flicks it between his fingers; the soft smirk on his face unmoving as he remembers the day he first met his housemate. How quickly his anger at being slated in the music reviews of what was-- at the time-- the  _ coolest _ magazine you could hope to be mentioned in, had melted away to be replaced with pity and warm companionship. 

In some ways, back then, he had thought he could be the answer to all of Dan’s problems. He was so optimistic, clean barely a year and proud enough to pretend he was some kind of salvation for anyone in a similar situation. 

He wonders what would have happened had life turned out a little differently for them all.

If he had never tracked down the author of his terrible review in the first place? Would he have ever met Dan in another circumstance or was that it? Their path. 

Going even further from that, what might have happened had Jones not taken that nosedive into instability in his teens? What if he had stayed firmly on the rails, sober, finished school and went to university on a music scholarship?

Would he have ever met any of these people? 

He likes to think that perhaps Dan would have given him a good music review, but then, they’d probably have no cause to meet. Maybe he’d have crossed paths with Vince and Howard in their little shop, when out for a stroll one day with his long term boyfriend and their pug Steven. But would it have mattered then that they shared a face, or would it have been brushed off as a strange occurrence and they’d never speak again? 

Everything happens for a reason, his grandmother said, and Jones was inclined to believe her. Because it hadn’t been smooth sailing to get to this point, but it was a point where he was beginning to feel content. And he wouldn’t have changed a thing, for fear he’d lose not only Dan but the two new friends he is certain he has gained from this. 

Which brings him squarely back to the source of his own problems. Dan.

The rhythmic ticking of the clock reminds him he is still awake, with no signs yet of tiring enough to drift off again. 

The sun is starting to seep it’s way into the room through the closed curtains of the bedroom window. It’s bathing everything in a dull glow. Beyond the pane is the sound of the city bustling into wakefulness, too, shutters rolling up and the rumble of a bin truck passing by. 

Dan and Vince would almost certainly be home by now. Whatever possible damage either of them could have done to the other will have been done. And call him pessimistic, but he’s certain that  _ something  _ would have happened. It usually does where his housemate is involved. 

He was volatile at the best of times but added alcohol  _ and  _ Nathan Barley to that mix and he became as easy to control as a molotov cocktail. 

God what if he’d gone off the deep end? 

His mod certainly is. Having been basking in the joy of things turning out alright for a change, he was veering dangerously close to panic over Dan once more and it wasn’t a road he wanted to go down again. Not if he could help it. 

To hell with it, he thinks. Sliding from the nest of Vince’s sheets he finds himself preemptively thinking of an excuse should Howard wake and ask him what he was doing at this time of morning. 

Not that he needs one, he manages to pad his way across the room and slide through the door without Howard so much as stirring. 

The first thing he does is venture for the kettle, intent on getting something into his system to help him get by; because his whole body is trembling and his head hurts and Jones has done withdrawal before-- granted from things a lot more intense than coffee-- and it was not a party he hoped to ever be invited back to. If tea would stave off the symptoms, he’d quite happily chug six about now. 

To his surprise, the little shaman they share their flat with is propped on the sofa, puffing away at what looks like a bong but the smoke emanating from it is a dusty pink colour. 

Jones’ rule of thumb is to keep himself away from illicit substances wherever possible but he’s not entirely sure  _ what  _ it is the tiny shaman is smoking so he just… resolves to keep a wide berth. 

“Alright?” He greets carefully. The man had expressed his wish to be left out of his and Vince’s plot but Jones was unsure if that meant avoiding conversation with him altogether? 

“You still here then?” Is what he asks. 

Which, while a bit rude, wasn’t exactly on the level of threatening to curse him he had been yesterday. “Yup. Sorry to disappoint.” Naboo just shrugs at him like it really didn’t make a difference to him which version of Vince’s face showed up to work. To be honest, it probably didn’t. “Weren’t you supposed to be off getting your friend this morning?” 

“Already been, missed all the traffic this time of morning.” 

Hm. Well then. 

It’s at exactly this point he turns with a freshly made tea in his hands and comes face to face with a  _ Gorilla.  _

It’s not his proudest moment, but he screams. 

***

Vince wakes up slowly. A stretch rolling from the base of his spine and forcing his arms up above his head; contented hum in the back of his throat. The whole process with his eyes blinking leisurely open to take in the room around him. 

At which point it goes from an unhurried awakening to a jolt of shock and he shoots to a seated position. 

For a moment he had expected to open his eyes to the sight of Howard rifling through his wardrobe, getting ready for the day and knowing full well Vince was awake and yet not urging him out of bed-- knowing full well a tired Vince was as grumpy as a restless toddler and a pain in the arse to work with. 

Instead he’d been greeted by the chaos of Jones’ flat from where he’d fallen asleep face down on the sofa the night before. 

He feels like he’s been hit by a train. 

Vince has a rather unique talent of having always been exempt from the sting of a hangover; something Howard had rather vocally envied him for all throughout their youth when drinking together was a more common activity. Vince had always been blessed with the ability of drinking how he liked and skirting the consequences, while Howard was on the other end of the spectrum, he didn’t even have to get  _ drunk  _ to feel the bite the next day. 

Almost as if the universe took all of Vince’s intoxication and dutifully passed it to Howard to deal with. 

It probably did. 

Which was exactly why, in the end, Howard simply decided that drinking mostly wasn’t worth it. He’d sometimes had one beer or two with dinner, or maybe a whiskey if it was a special occasion. But ninety percent of the time the older man was happy with a soft drink and monitoring whatever Vince’s intake was. 

Today, he thinks he might now understand what a hangover is-- which in itself is a complete outrage given that he didn’t touch a drop of alcohol all night-- his whole body feels clammy and lethargic, his head pounds with each movement he makes, his stomach is turning. Generally, he feels like shit. 

With an agonised groan, he scrubs a hand over his stubbled cheek and drags himself to standing. Now that he’s awake he may as well stay awake. A shower and a fresh pair of clothes is in his future for sure, and then he’s going to have to eat. 

The glowing red digital numbers on the far wall, surrounded by Jones’ colourful face, tell him it's six in the morning. This was normally the time he’d be stumbling home to bed, not waking up. 

Made worse when he thinks he didn’t even get Dan to bed until three. 

Apparently, once the floodgates opened for a drunk Dan Ashcroft, they were not so easily closed again. The man had taken no convincing at all to settle into his bed, but sleeping had not been on his agenda. 

Vince remembers the soft shy expression he’d worn as he patted the empty space of the bed beside him and in a small voice asked,  _ “Will you stay for a bit?”  _

And look, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Vince was as soft as they come. No matter what outward appearance he happened to be wearing, goth, punk, mod, futuristic prostitute, he never wanted to see anyone unhappy. Not if he could help it. So of course those tiny brown puppy dog eyes worked on him immediately and he had settled in beside the larger man for even more conversation. 

He can’t help himself but to grin to himself as he remembers it. They’d both silently agreed not to touch anything that might be considered a serious subject and so Vince had done what he did best when it came to Northern grumpy types, he’d done everything possible to make Dan laugh. 

They had debated the merits of kites as a mode of transportation. Agreed vehemently that if any animal was to be blinked out of existence it should be urban foxes-- Vince still doesn’t trust them-- and then  _ dis _ agreed over whether books were still a legitimate form of entertainment. 

It was ridiculous, completely pointless rambling, but more than anything it served as a comfort mechanism for Dan, he could tell. Some non serious padding to the heavy weight issues they had begun to tackle on the sofa. 

Even as Dan had gone on to mutter-- completely half asleep, face smushed into his pillow and an anchoring hand clamped to Vince’s knee-- how amazing he thought Vince was for standing up to Barley like he had that night. 

“When I stand up to him I still end up doing what he wants.” He had sighed, eyes closed but still pinched with his annoyance. “Wish I was as brave as you, you’re the strongest person I know.” 

Vince wished he’d had the presence of mind to record the conversation and forward it to his double. 

By the time his words trailed off and his breathing evened into something restful, Vince had been so knackered both physically and emotionally that he had debated climbing into bed with him right there. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when both he and Dan were in danger of using the other to satisfy a want for their respective copies. 

So he had stumbled out into the living room and collapsed face first onto the sofa. Not even bothering to snatch himself a blanket or anything, sleep was all that mattered to him at that moment. 

All things considered, it was a necessary sacrifice if it meant he was in some way contributing to the salvation of this relationship. He’s gotten by on sleepless nights before, he’d be fine. And Dan probably wasn’t going to be up for hours, so he had time to gather up the bits of himself that were spilling out of the frame and slot them back where they belonged. 

The stillness of the flat, as someone who is used to his own home being bustling with activity at almost all times, is eerie. 

This time of morning, the rare occasions Vince is awake to see it, Howard would already be going through his own routines of waking up. Shuffling his way through a jazz trance or humming in the bathroom while he showers. Bollo sometimes makes pancakes for them, if he’s in a good mood. Or, more likely, after being on a bender both shaman and gorilla will be slouching around-- completely unaware of what day it is, never mind the time-- and complaining loudly of what blinders they’ve got. 

Here, though, there’s no sound at all. 

He rubs at his eyes as he makes his way down the hall to their bathroom, but before he can shut himself inside he finds his concern (whether this is his own or a side effect of Jones’ character) overtaking him, and he creaks the bedroom door open enough to peer inside. 

Dan looks to still be sleeping soundly. Vince thinks he may as well grab fresh clothes while he’s here and sets about creeping past the sleeping form on his tiptoes. 

It’s a hell of an insight into what Jones usually has to go through after one of Dan’s nights. 

Shirt and jeans slung over one arm, he thinks he has been completely successful in his task of not waking the other, but as he turns to leave he finds one brown eye squinted up at him. Dan looks like he can’t figure out who he is or why he’s in the room. 

Vince swallows, Dan doesn’t strike him as a morning person. 

"What you sneakin' around for." The man grunts, words all jumbled and soft around the edges with his sleep. 

“Sorry.” He mumbles in reply, rather than try to answer. He takes another step toward the door as if to leave; a hand darts from beneath to covers to catch at his wrist. 

“Wait. You okay?” Dan asks, he’s opened both eyes now. His brows furrow where he considered him. The way he asks is dripping with concern over something Vince is clearly missing, as far as he’s aware he has come in and gotten clothes but Dan is clearly interpreting his behaviour in some strange way. 

He sees something Vince doesn’t mean to be putting out there, which is  _ terrifying.  _

“Yeah, just desperate for a shower.” He explains. 

Though Dan nods his head in a manner that speaks to his understanding, he does not look wholly convinced by this reply. Thankfully, the sting of his own hangover distracts him. The action of moving his head at all forcing a groan from him, Vince’s wrist is released in favour of throwing an arm over his eyes and grunting. “I feel like shit.” 

“Go back to sleep then, you daft bugger.” Vince sighs fondly. “I’ll wake you up in a few hours with a Resolve.” 

"Where would I be without you," Dan says around a yawn. 

"I don't dare think about it." Vince smirks down at him, reaches out to pinch his cheek in a mirror of the action Dan had done to him the night previous. 

"Did  _ you _ sleep?" 

"Dan. Go back to sleep." Vince says, and this time, Dan sighs at him-- Vince thinks he sees the beginnings of spout before he rolls over. 

He simply leaves him to it. 

***

Naturally, after spilling hot tea all down his front and screeching the roof off the flat, Jones first instinct is to of course run from the  _ literal wild animal _ that Vince had not at all been exaggerating about. 

The only problem with this plan is all the noise he had been making had drawn the attention of everyone else in the house, and so he barely gets a few steps before he is crashing bodily into a sleep ruffled Howard. The man’s arms catching him around the waist to prevent them both going tumbling to the floor. 

"What's going on, what's the matter?" He asks, voice rough from where he has clearly been dragged forcefully from sleep and shot to his friends aid. 

Jones can't quite find the words to explain himself. Adrenaline ebbing through him, his entire front burning thanks to the hot liquid spilled down it, the gorilla is somehow managing to look at him like he's lost his marbles and even in the mess of his panic he knows he has potentially just put a foot wrong in his act. 

Howard's concern deepens. "Vince? Are you alright? What happened?" 

In a move that is perhaps not the wisest for a person that should be doing his best to keep his cover story intact, all Jones can do is squeeze his eyes shut against Howard’s gaze. It’s like he’s twelve years old again and pretending if he can’t see his problem then his problem can’t see him. 

"He's fine," Naboo cuts in, and if Jones could find his voice to thank him, he would. "He was in my room earlier, probably breathing in all my second hand smoke. Can mess with humans brains a bit."

Where he has himself pressed to Howard's chest he can feel how he stiffens. Closely followed by an authoritative snap of, "I always said your alien drugs would get us into bother one day."

No reply comes from Naboo, but Jones is brave enough to peek his eyes open and witness him narrow his eyes in a glare towards Howard. 

Head tilted downwards, Howard squints at him. "What are you even doing up at this hour?" He asks, but then changes his mind and decides there are more pressing concerns to be dealing with. "Are you okay?” 

One broad palm presses to his forehead. “Maybe you should go back to bed, sleep off whatever’s in your system.” 

Frankly, Jones couldn’t imagine a more painful fate than for him to be banished back to the bedroom to lay there, alone and bored all day while Howard went about his business in the shop. Today was not a day to be alone with his thoughts, not until he had heard from Vince. 

“No!” He snaps. “I’m fine.” Howard doesn’t look convinced. “Besides, you alone in that shop all day? I’ll come back to a anal-retentive nightmare.” 

Howard shoots a look between the shaman and Jones and then narrows his eyes into suspicious slits. “If you say so.” 

“I do.” 

“Alright, then…” Awkwardly, as if just realising he is still in fact holding Jones in an embrace, Howard detangles himself and clears his throat. His embarrassment is clear, and Jones finds himself calmed by the sheer adorable nature of it all. “I’m off to get ready then-- you might want to put those in the wash, too. They’re covered in tea.” 

The man shuffles off down the corridor to the bathroom, leaving Jones alone with Naboo and  _ a gorilla.  _

The animal grunts something Jones thinks is  _ actual words _ but he can’t hear it over the ringing of residual panic in his ears. 

“Nah he’s some weirdo Vince found to take his place while he’s off doing something stupid.” Naboo explains; he was sure the Gorilla has a name. Bono, or something. No-- Bollo?

“Jones. My name is Jones.” He finds himself snapping in return, not at all in the mood for the tiny man’s disrespect. 

Bollo seems to take this tone of voice as a personal insult, though, makes to step forward on one leg, a low threatening sound rumbling in his chest, but Naboo stops him with a small gesture of his hand. The shaman is  _ smirking  _ at him like he’s done something amusing. “He’s alright Bollo, just a bit weird.” 

“Cheers.” 

“You’re welcome.” And then they’re gone. Heading off to the bedroom down the corridor. Jones is left to clean up shards of his smashed mug. 

Today was already shaping up to be a pretty terrible day, how much worse could it get? 

***

Vince manages to wait until noon before he finds himself dialing Jones’ number. 

Dan is still passed out, and Vince had been waiting politely for the other man to contact him, lest he accidentally call while Howard is in the room. But with all this new knowledge he had about their situation came a level of antsy behaviour that was getting difficult to satisfy. He wanted to spill the beans and he wanted to do it now. 

Thankfully, it barely gets the chance to ring twice before Jones is answering. “Hi Vince!” Comes chirped down the line.

There’s only a brief second of panic before Vince remembers the time, and the fact it is a Friday. “Howard gone to the fish shop?” 

“Mhm, apparently that’s something you do?” 

“Yeah!” Vince is grinning despite himself. Howard could always be relied upon to follow routines. “Fish ‘n’ chip friday, you don’t do anything like that?” 

“Have you looked in my kitchen?” Jones chuckles. 

Vince had, in fact, and what he had ended up having for breakfast was a few spoonfuls of Nutella and two bags of crisps. Though, it wasn’t so far off what his diet looked like when he was at home, so he supposed he had nothing to complain about. “Yeah, good point.” 

There’s a breath where they both seem to be waiting for the other to speak. Their curiosity is thick and cloying. In the end, it’s Vince to break the silence. He’s never been good at patience. 

“Are you aware Dan wants to bum you silly?” He’s never been good at subtlety either. 

And where there should be shock, or surprise, or some kind of acknowledgement of this being  _ new _ information, there is none.

Instead there's a sigh; the kind of sigh indicative of a person who is not only aware of the specified behaviour but is tired of it being a problem. It’s almost like he’s gearing up to have to apologise on Dan’s behalf the way he exhales that singular breath. “Oh no, what did he do?” 

Vince sits forward on the sofa, mouth agape. “You’re not shocked?” 

“Uh…” And the ensuing silence is as telling as Jones spelling it out for him. It takes a minute. Two and Two dance a waltz around each other. They have time to woo each other nicely, get some drinks and try out some cheesy pick up lines before finally renting a fancy hotel room and clicking together to make four. 

“Oh my god! You’ve already had him haven’t you?” 

“What?” And now Jones sounds panicked. “No. I mean, yes. Sort of. Once--”

“Shitting  _ Hell _ , Jones--” 

“Maybe twice, But it was  _ years  _ ago.” He hastens to explain as Vince struggles to keep in his laughter. “Really, we hadn’t known each other that long and-- We both decided it was best left alone after that.” 

“Well I don’t think he got the memo.” And Jones giggles along with him then, a shocked kind of thing, like he hadn’t been expecting that response. “A warning would have been nice, though, he kept sending me all these smoldering looks I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.” 

“Please don’t shag him,” Jones says, small and worried, and it makes Vince’s heart ache. Especially when he quickly adds. “I mean. I’m not bothered, not really. Just. I think it might be a bit difficult to explain why I suddenly changed my mind on our ‘let’s not have sex anymore’ agreement and hopped on his dick after half a decade.” 

Vince snickers uncontrollably, mostly because hearing such obscenity from his own voice is a bit funny. He’s usually quite reserved when it comes to profanity, he saves it up for the most extreme cases. 

But he also finds it a little amusing the situation they have found themselves in. Vince is now going to have to find a way to beat Dan off with a stick apparently, because even if Jones had been giving him the green light he knows there was no way he could find it in himself to go down that road with Dan. 

As much as he will admit he finds the man attractive, roguishly handsome and his confidence was flooring. Every little bit of contact they shared was like a static shock- He _ wasn’t Howard _ . 

Not that he has the words to explain this to Jones properly. He ends up just shrugging casually to himself and saying, “You haven’t got anything to worry about.” 

Though he does think Jones is a massive liar in every respect.  _ ‘Not bothered _ ’ his arse. 

“But um…” Vince clears his throat, preparing for the awkward part of the conversation in light of this new information. “There’s something you should know--” 

“Oh God what did he do?” The tone is a rather amusing combination of his panic and the resigned acceptance that Dan has a tendency to behave badly and Jones is going to have to clear it up. “‘Cause when he gets drunk he can be a bit…” 

Vince  _ knows _ . “Handsy?”

“Yeah. A bit.” 

“He kissed me.” 

Jones goes silent on the other end of the phone. So silent for a moment Vince is worried he has been hung up on out of fury. Or upset. He can imagine Jones storming through London streets to get to him right now and give him a good kicking for daring to put his hands all over Dan. 

“He do that often?” Vince asks, hoping to spur some conversation back to life. 

“Uh… No. No. Not since we, you know, agreed not to fuck each other anymore.” Vince can practically hear the cogs turning on the other end of the phone. Where their curiosity had been thick before it was instead replaced with the sharp edges of Jones’ panic. 

Vince had to pull him back from this. “Want my opinion?” 

Swallowing thickly, Jones finds it in himself to joke, “If I say no you’re going to tell me anyway aren't you?” 

That’s as good as a yes to Vince. “He’s hopelessly in love with you, mate.” 

“That’s... insanity.” 

“Trust me, I’m like your spy, yeah? Here to gather information from the inside, and I’m telling you--” He has to pause to gasp for breath, his excitement for these two people and the potential union he’s helping create overtaking him “It’s not even just the sexy way he behaves, Jonesy, he looks at you like you hung the moon!” 

“But he… He..” As expected this information takes Jones a bit by surprise. And Vince’s heart gives a painful clench in response to his uncertainty. That these two people be so obviously in tune on so many levels but healthy communication is apparently not one of them. 

They touched like lovers, fond and affectionate. Intimate, certainly not the way many people would touch just their friends. They existed in such comfortable, if not slightly strange, domesticity, and yet because neither of them were good at just saying how they felt, they’d fallen down a path of uncertainty and distance. 

Not unlike Howard and himself he supposed. 

“I had a chat with him last night too-- A proper serious one.” Vince is adamantly fighting in Dan’s corner now. He will get his point across or be hung up on trying. “Wanna know what he said? Or have I broken you with that bit of info.” 

“Go on.” Jones rasps, he sounds like he’s swallowed sandpaper. 

“I think he’s just as fed up as you are with the state of things. His drinkin’ an’ that.” He says honestly, casts a careful glance over his shoulder to ensure the man hasn’t quietly snuck up on him. Thankfully it’s all clear. “Reckons he doesn’t know how to function otherwise, though.” 

More silence. 

“Oh, and I definitely told you so. He knows you  _ so  _ much better than you think, half my act has come from things he says about you, you know.” Vince is beaming with pride, a little for himself, but mostly for Dan in helping him prove his point. “Wouldn’t give me Pepsi at all last night because of the caffeine, would only let me drink lemonade.  _ And  _ he admitted he remembers everything you’ve ever told him--  _ I _ think he’s just too scared to admit he cares enough to listen, y’know?” 

Jones manages to choke out what sounds like a laugh. Or a sob, he’s really unsure. 

It was perhaps a lot to come to terms with over the phone. Maybe they should have met to have this talk. “You okay, Jones?” 

“Mhm.” comes crackling down the line. “I just, I don’t understand why he-- why has it taken this? Why couldn’t he just talk to me.” 

“Well. That’s what I’m going to find out for you.” He says, comforting. “I promise… Unless, unless you’d rather we swap back? I’d understand if you’d prefer to see him yourself.” 

Jones seems to hesitate over this question. “Maybe.. Maybe tonight? I think I owe it to you to give it another go with Howard.” 

Astonishingly, this is the first time Vince remembers Howard was even part of this equation. “Howard? How is he, what’s he said.” 

“Well, if you got to say I told you so then I get to gloat too, you prick.” The cheer has returned to Jones’ voice, his face is obviously split with a smile, he can hear it. “Do you know how happy Howard is trying to make you, Vince?” 

“Are you sure that’s my Howard you're with?” Vince says, deflecting what he knows is coming. “Cause mine is a prat that takes great pleasure in winding me up.

“Well. Yeah, but the way he looks at you…” Vince finds himself blushing for no reason then. “I think you surely must know.” 

Alright. Maybe Vince does know, he wasn’t as oblivious as he pretended to be. “A bit.” 

“A bit?” Jones cries; amusement and outrage blending together into something like a bark of laughter. “Vince-- He’s completely head over heels for you. C’mon!” 

“Yeah, alright.” It doesn’t mean to come out as the sigh of a moody teen, but it does. 

“ _ Why _ am I even here if you know this!” 

“Because it ain’t that straightforward for me and Howard!” He snaps, already defensive enough to forget that in comparison to Jones and Dan’s obstacles, it very much was straightforward for him and Howard. “I get more mixed signals off him than a broken traffic light. You know he’s-- he told me he loved me once. Proper heartfelt and emotional, when we were a bit younger. Sat beside me and said he loved me and then nothing ever changed. Even when I kissed him--” 

“You  _ what?”  _

“I kissed him. On the roof on his birthday, underneath the stars,, it was  _ well _ romantic-- Okay, it would have been romantic if I wasn’t running for my life and he was a bit, you know, stunned.” Jones snickers on the other end of the phone, Vince can’t find it in himself to stop now he’s started. “He even said all sorts about sexual tension and flicking his switch and I thought-- I thought this time would be it ‘cause  _ he  _ could feel it too, but what happens? He runs off with a jazz tart that turns out to be his fishy stalker in a dress.” 

Vince takes one distinctive breath when he’s finished. Jones does not say a thing. Vince had spent years bottling a lot of that up, not like he’d really had anyone else to talk to about it, and now it was all out there he felt lighter. 

“So maybe I don’t  _ feel  _ like he’s still got feelings for me, because what has he really done to show it?” There’s no fire to his voice anymore. All his energy is gone. What’s left is a sad little whisper of the undeniable truth. “He’s messed me about, chucked me, and pissed off to Denmark like he couldn’t wait to be further away from me.” 

A beat passes. Jones sighs with so much fondness Vince finds himself allowing himself a relieved smile. “Oh boy, you’re both silly bitches.” Jones says. 

“You what?” And despite his slight offence, he still chuckles. 

“Don’t pretend you aren’t!” Jones reprimands lightly. “I’ve never met people further in denial.” 

“Really?” Two can play at this game, Vince grins into the phone. “But you live with Dan... And you’re  _ you _ .” 

“ _ Ha ha _ , you tart.”

And just like that the balance is restored to their friendship. You’d think they’d known each other years rather than a few short days with how they already understand each other's nuances. But, perhaps that was a perk of being copies of one another. 

Normally, Vince supposes people would have quite extreme reactions to all the information that has just come to light. Upon finding their best friend-- whom you used to have a sexual relationship apparently-- has been harbouring romantic feelings for you for years, most might panic. Or be worried. Or want to deal with the situation as soon as possible… What Jones does is huff down the line, “What a pair we make, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Vince agrees. “What should we do now, then?” 

“Well you can do what you like, I’m going to go back to your dull job and try to talk to your lovely flatmate about how to convince you that you two should be together.” Jones lays it out with such joy in his tone, like he already knows his plan will work, that Vince finds himself believing right along with him. 

“Do you… Do you really think he loves me?” 

“Yes, Vince. I do.” Then, abruptly, Jones is hissing. “I’ve got to go, speak soon.” 

Vince doesn’t even get the chance to say goodbye before the phone is hung up on him. Howard must have come back from his lunch run, which is annoying. As ever the man has terrible timing, he was about to really get into it with Jones about their soon to be boyfriends. 

The phone in his hand beeps with a new message, simply reading:  _ Call you later, hav fun with Dan x x  _

Vince doesn’t think he’ll stop smiling the rest of the day. 

***

“Who was that?” 

Howard is hovering in the shop doorway, bags of food over one arm and the other unbuttoning the wool coat he’s slipped on before leaving. The rain outside is hammering down, and it means his wet curls are dropping low about his face. 

If Jones wasn’t already grinning ear to ear from his conversation with Vince then the sight of it would certainly be inspiring fizzing happiness in him. “Just a mate.” He says. 

“Not Leroy, was it? Thought I told him to stop ringing you at work.” As he gripes, Howard moves toward the counter again, deposits their steaming lunch for Jones to begin to pick through while Howard slips from his coat and hangs it on the peg to dry off. “All you do is natter and I’m left doing all the work.” 

“You do all the work anyway,” Jones points out, slips a chip into his mouth and promptly burns his tongue. 

Thus far their day in the shop had passed rather uneventfully, and it continues to do so even long after they finish their lunch. Likely due to the weather, and the rather small client base an establishment such as this boasted, they had not seen a customer all day. Howard busied himself fiddling with the small TV by the counter, watching documentaries on jazz scat singing while he pretended to be working through the presence of a clipboard in his lap. Jones had favoured the more obvious method of not doing any work, by sitting by the window to trace funky patterns in the condensation-- all the while pretending he wasn’t actually finding Howard’s documentary quite interesting.

There’s not so much as a hint of suspicion the likes of which Howard had displayed that morning, which to Jones, means he is making up for his wobble and that he’s getting good at pretending to be Vince. 

He wonders, if they remain friends after all of this if they will ever need to play each other again for the sake of favors? 

_ “Oi, Jones I have this thing on tonight but I also told Howard I’d watch a film with him-- you wouldn’t mind being me for a few hours?” _

Or maybe. 

_ “Hey, Vince, I promised I’d go to my manager’s girlfriend’s surprise party but I’m not too keen on things like that… fancy going for me?” _

It would be genius.

“You look deep in thought over there.” Howard announces sometime just after his show finishes. 

Jones realises he has been staring out the window for a considerable amount of time. He could easily come up with some kind of jokey response, something to keep this precarious bubble of comfort they have found themselves in afloat, but what he settles on is keeping his word to Vince, and getting more answers. 

It had been long enough since they had a serious chat, more than twelve hours was enough of a break. “Did it rain in Denmark?” 

Jones isn’t even facing Howard, he had turned his body toward the window some time ago. Elbow resting on the arm of the chair he was sat in and his chin resting in his hand. He can still feel the way the other man tenses. 

“Sometimes.” The fact he hasn’t tried to stall or talk around his answer is already a positive sign. The fact he chooses to keep talking after the initial one word is a  _ very _ good sign indeed. “There was one day it rained so much the room I was staying in flooded. Had to kip in the bathtub because all my bedding got wet.” 

Now Jones turns to Howard. Swings the red chair so his entire body is facing the other man. Can see how stiff he’s gone, but bless him, he’s trying. 

“You don’t talk about it much, what it was like out there.” 

Howard gives an attempt at an aloof shrug, but it comes off jerky and awkward. “You never really seemed interested in hearing about it.” 

Which, yes, he can imagine Vince being the kind of man to not only ignore something that upsets him, but adamantly discourage any mere mention of it. He’d be willing to bed his decks any time it gets brought up; it ends in yelling. Howard’s anxious frame speaks enough to that.

It’s time for his secret weapon, making more confessions on Vince’s behalf. “I do want to hear about it, you know, I just….” He pauses, twirls a strand of hair in his fingers as he tries his best to phrase it properly. “It upsets me. To think about it.” 

“What, the country?” Howard looks so confused, Jones is sure he isn’t joking in this question. 

“No, you berk.” He huffs a laugh. “You being in the country. Without me.” 

Howard’s mouth falls into an ‘O’ as the meaning dawns on him. His gaze darts to the clipboard on his knee, the pen he’s holding is twisted between his fingers anxiously. Jones waits, knows for sure there is something worth waiting for. The silence between them feels humid and clammy, like the still summer air before a storm. Pregnant with meaning. 

“I wished you’d come with me.” Howard starts, Jones’ holds his breath. “Every day I thought about--” 

Jones’ phone starts ringing shrilly in his pocket. 

The moment shatters and both men feel it physically like a blow to their persons. Howard flinches; it’s almost as if his sharing had been a completely subconscious action and now he was aware he was doing it, was panicked enough to put as much distance between himself and Jones as possible. 

“I should probably start sorting those new snow globes that came in.” He says in a hurry, doesn’t let Jones get a word of comfort in. “You answer that, it’ll probably be Leroy again.” 

And then he’s gone. 

The phone stops ringing with comical timing, as if whoever had been calling already knew what they’d stopped. But when Jones pulls out the offending technology he finds his missed call is from Vince. 

Which is odd, but he’s a bit preoccupied with Howard at the moment, so he resolves to call him back later. 

Right now, he needed to make a cup of tea as a peace offering. 

***

It’s just after two when Vince wakes Dan up from his hangover nap, out of boredom more than anything else, but at least he comes armed with a freshly made resolve. 

His generosity does nothing to stop the glare he gets as he steps into the room, glass in hand. For whatever reason, Dan was already awake, and yet had made no move to leave the bed. He’s curled on his side, sheets tucked to his chin and the firm set of his features already tells Vince he has not woken up in a good mood. 

“Afternoon sleepy head,” He chirps anyway, like he might be able to drag him into cheeriness with willpower alone. What he’s met with is the squint of a man whose head is hurting enough that just Vince’s voice is causing him pain. “Sit up, you daft bugger, I’ve got you this.” 

The sight of the resolve is motivation enough. Dan maneuvers himself gingerly into a seated position, grasping fingers already reaching for the cloudy liquid that was going to take most of his pain away. 

Watching him gulp greedily at his drink, Vince makes the mistake of attempting to tease him. “See, this is why you shouldn’t drink so much.” 

Dan does not receive it as a tease. 

Somewhere in between the soft concern of that morning, and the sharp look of discontent he is currently getting, Dan appears to have decided not only that he is in a foul mood, but that the direct cause of this foul mood is Vince himself. 

“Piss off.” He grumbles curtly. 

Now, it’s a very rare thing for Howard to get into a mood as bad as this one, but when it does happen it’s a source of glee for Vince. Because often, there is nothing more he enjoys than prodding the bear. Never mind it is clearly a bad idea with how prickly Dan is presenting himself as. Vince finds he simply cannot leave well enough alone, especially not with the idea in mind that any fighting he does is for Jones’ sake somewhere down the road. 

Not backing down from a fight was his MO lately, even where Howard was concerned. 

“No.” He says. He hovers at the foot of the bed watching him sip his hangover remedy with planted feet and arms folded over his chest. “I wanna savour this, maybe it’ll be the time you learn a lesson.” 

A flash like lightning dances across Dan’s gaze, and it’s the only warning Vince gets that he’s pushing his luck. “Jones. Get off your high horse.” 

He drops his mouth in a wordless expression of his shock. “Hardly on a high horse, Dan.  _ You  _ told me you wanted to stop drinking last night, remember?” And it’s clear he  _ does _ if the way he darts his gaze away is anything to go by. “Or were you just saying whatever came to mind to get in my pants?”

At least the shame of that last insinuation hits it’s target. Dan purses his lips as he gathers a response, ees refusing to budge from where they have locked on to a spot on the sheets rather than up at Vince’s face. 

And yet, even from this angel Vince can read exactly what’s going on here. That Dan isn’t just a dickhead because he wants to be. There’s a fear here. Terror motivates everything this man does in some way shape or form. He stays in a terrible job because he’s afraid of what he’ll be without it. He exists in a state of sadness on purpose because he’s afraid of who he’ll become without the borders of negativity keeping him in place. He drinks because he’s scared to face the reality of his situation. 

He pushes Jones away because he’s afraid of loving. 

Poor bastard. 

Still, that doesn’t stop Vince falling victim to the fight Dan is clearly spoiling for. Every minute arch of his brow and the irritated twitch of his lip gives away how much he’d rather be arguing right now than having a serious conversation. Vince is wound up enough on Jones’ behalf, who has to deal with this every day, to let him have what he wants. 

“You’re fucking unbelievable.” And as much as he wants to perhaps storm out like he would at home, make a statement with his exit, he doesn’t. He’s too aware the longer he lets Dan get away with this behaviour, the worse off Jones is going to have it when he gets back. If a screaming match will teach him a lesson Vince has had enough practice with Howard recently “Surely you can’t be  _ that dense  _ that you can’t see this is ruining you. It’s ruining  _ me,  _ Dan.” 

“That’s rich, coming from  _ you _ .” 

And for once, Vince is left floundering. Because they’re straying into the dangerous territory of things he clearly doesn’t know about the person he’s supposed to be- because Jones didn’t  _ tell him.  _ “‘Scuse me?” 

“I said it’s rich. It means it’s ironic--.”

“--I know what it means, dickhead, don’t call me stupid--” 

“--that you of  _ all people,  _ think you hold the authority to lecture me on addiction.” 

And yeah, Vince isn’t daft. He’s perfectly capable of taking context clues and forming a conclusion. 

Jones was incredibly secretive about his past; so much so that the man didn’t keep photos or trinkets. There was almost nothing personal in this flat, at least not anywhere people could see it, past the painting of his own face. Jones liked to pretend he was a hollow shape of a man, everything to be taken at face value and not at all looked into. 

Which almost always meant there was  _ something _ to see under the surface. 

Vince knew. Because he did the same thing. 

_ I haven’t got anything inside, I’m like a beachball.  _

Had he considered the possibility Jones' past lay along the road of addiction? Yes. It was an option, one of many, and it was certainly one he should not have found out about like this. 

Dan bringing it up so bluntly was already quite a shock but when you factor in that he was bringing it up as a weapon  _ against  _ Jones? Vince sees red. 

“You’re a fucking prick.” He snaps. His nails dig into his palms at his sides. He’s choking on his own fury. 

_ How dare he hurt Jones like this.  _

“Do you think you’re the only one who worries, Jones?” Dan snaps right back seemingly unable to stop himself now he’s started. It’s the most Vince has heard him talk while sober. “Following me around like my mother, lecturing me about how much I drink when you’re..”

“When I’m  _ what?”  _

“Quite obviously using again.” 

He’s not entirely sure which part of that sentence stuns him more. The accusation itself against Jones, a man who Vince couldn’t imagine putting his relationship with Dan at risk for the sake of a fix… Or the fact that there’s no anger in Dan’s voice as he makes said accusation. 

It’s all fear. Worry. Genuine heartfelt panic. All blending together to deliver a sour tasting smack right to Vince’s chest. He finds himself stumbling back with the jarring nature of it all. 

“That why you’re looking through my drawers yesterday? You reckon I’m stashing drugs in there?” Dan looks away, Vince laughs bitterly. “You’re unbelievable.” 

This time Vince does leave, which probably doesn’t help him argue Jones’ case, because he’s fairly sure Dan’s sudden suspicion that his flatmate is high as kite has nothing to do with narcotics at all and everything to do with the fact  _ he’s not actually Jones.  _

He snatches his phone during his intent to storm from the flat and sets about dialling Jones. He’s going to need advice on how to come back from this. 

Except there’s no answer. 

***

They close the shop early. 

Naboo ventures down with Bollo in tow about an hour after Jones manages to talk Howard out of the stock room and into rearranging the shelves a bit. There was no way to get him back to their Denmark chat from earlier, but Jones would prefer to be engaging with him in some way. After all, it wasn’t just the serious chats that would count towards rebuilding this relationship, the fun parts would be remembered too. 

The shaman informs them that he and his familiar are headed to someone named Dannis’ house to help him with his SnapDragons. 

“Oh like the flowers?” Jones asks, and gets a definitive no from the Gorilla. Turns out they’re actually a kind of dragon and they’re remarkably hard to tame, Dannis has three and they all hate the rain so Naboo is off to help him calm them down. 

At this point in the mystical adventure of Vince’s life, Jones just nods his head and says. “Alright, cool. See ya then!” And waves them off from the window. 

“We probably won’t see a customer anyway,” Howard sighs as the door clicks shut. He’s fiddling half heartedly with a toy robot, winding the spring on the back but not setting it down to let it walk. 

“So let’s close.” Jones suggests. He had been busy rearranging ornaments in the shop window into a display he thought was pretty good if he did say so himself. 

Howard gapes at him like he has just suggested they nick off with all the cash in the till. “We can’t just close, Vince, we have a duty. A duty as shopkeepers, to serve the public.” 

“You just said we aren’t going to see any public, so what’s the point?” 

Even Howard struggles to find anything to say in response to that. “Naboo won’t be happy.” 

With a conspiratorial wink, Jones sidles up to the counter and leans over it. Catches the way Howard’s gaze tries very hard not to flit over his body as he does. Another bit of evidence to flaunt at Vince later. “I’ll sort it if he says anything. C’mon. We’ll watch a film or something, it’ll be fun.” 

In the ensuing silence, Jones tries his best to convince him with his body language alone. Jabs his head towards the stair in invitation, tries to force his eyes to sparkle with mischief. He even sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as if the sensuality of the act might convince him into action. 

It works. A slow-- almost as if it were unwilling-- smile spreads on Howard’s face before he finally cracks. “Alright, fine.” 

It’s a mad bustle of action from then on. Howard tosses his clipboard aside and dips to flick off the green fairy lights hung up about the shop. Jones practically skips his way to the door to flip the sign to closed and clicks the lock shut on the door. They seem to mutually agree they can get the shutters later, because they meet at the bottom of the steps, giggling in perfect harmony, racing each other up. 

“I’m gonna change out of these clothes first.” Jones says at the top of the stairs. He’s tried to be more adventurous with Vince’s wardrobe today. Throwing caution to the wind and pulling on a lengthy top that in the right circumstances could be worn as a dress. Some leggings under that and an oversized jacket to complete the look. Howard had told him he looked nice and for once, he felt it. 

He was almost certainly going to be inviting Vince shopping with him after this. Jones thinks it’s time he lets himself be a bit freer with his fashion choices. 

“No wonder we have so much washing, you change at least four times a day.” Howard gripes. “Which reminds me, I’ll put the washing on while you’re taking hours to select the perfect comfort clothes.” 

“Not my fault I require a look for every mood, is it?” Jones calls over his shoulder, already departing for the bedroom. 

“Yes, actually, it is.” Is called back. 

The grin he has plastered on his face refuses to move as he saunters over to Vince’s side of the room and sets about digging around for something a bit more appropriate for lounging about in. Shockingly, now that he has opened himself up to more glamorous outfit options, he finds it’s all he wants to wear-- and not even for the benefit of anyone but himself. 

He just pulls the dress like shirt over his head when the bedroom door behind him swings open and Howard strolls in. 

In his hand he’s clutching a white towel, streaked with black dye. “Vince, what--” 

Whatever he was going to say is cut off abruptly. The new point of focus for Howard is Jones’ bare chest. At first, the expression is one Jones thinks he recognises. Wide eyed and awe filled, like someone looking at a piece of art-- and he almost allows himself to be flattered-- but then the look morphs into confusion. Hurt, even. 

Jones is frozen where he stands, unable to cover himself up or say anything as Howard takes three long strides and comes to a stop barely inches away from him. 

With a confidence he had  _ never  _ displayed up until now, Howard reaches out with a trembling hand and draws his fingers over the St. Christopher hanging innocently around Jones’ neck. They don’t stop there, though, they travel down, feather light touches making Jones’ skin tingle. He breaks out in goosebumps. The fingers come to a stop over once of Jones’ exposed hip bones where it pokes out from beneath the waistband of his leggings. 

This point on his body seems to be the most fascinating thing to him, where he brushes reverent fingers over the pale skin over and over again. 

“You’re not Vince are you?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a heavy chapter there, I think. Don't worry! I'll fix it all soon, I promise!


	8. To live your life where nothing is real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite still being determined to help, Vince begins to struggle. Jones has some explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I originally posted an early unfinished draft of this chapter rather than the finished version, I am silly, and I apologise but hey-- it's technically like two chapters in a day right?? This is now the complete chapter!

_“You’re not Vince are you?”_

The speed at which everything crosses Jones’ mind is uncomfortable. Thoughts scramble, jostling for position. There’s screeching. The crash of a symbol and the squeal of a speeding car slamming on its brakes and then-- silence. 

Howard knows. 

Something about him standing here, half clothed and panicked, had given him away and he hadn’t a clue what it was. Could he really try and talk his way out of this without all the information? Maybe he could try. He _should_ probably try. Vince would want him to try. Would he? Perhaps, in the right light, this was an opportunity to break free of the constraints of the act and talk to Howard properly. Had he not had this exact thought multiple times over-- how much easier it would be to talk to a man who didn’t know him? Oh fuck, he’d royally cocked this up for the both of them hadn’t he? 

_Hopeless, Jones, you’re a failure._

Vince was going to be furious. 

It’s barely been a few seconds. Long enough for him to drop his mouth open in the expectation of a response, but as it happens, his internal monologue is so preoccupied with his panic that it forgets to form words for him. 

_Fucking useless_. 

The longer he spends gaping the less chance he has of being able to explain this away, but he can’t stop. He’s not even sure time is still passing, anymore, it’s all come to a bit of a jarring stop like the needle being ripped from a record. Is he still breathing? It doesn’t feel like it. His perception of reality begins and ends with the look of utter betrayal on Howard’s face. 

And as if he hadn’t dug himself far enough into this grave, the annoying pattern of his phone ruining poignant moments reoccurs. 

It had been dropped on the bed as he’d changed. Forgotten about until this very second; because a few streets away Vince has decided that he _still_ needs to get in touch with Jones no matter how many times he has refused to answer him today. 

You’d think it would make him worry about what was going on at home-- Vince being desperate for his attention as he is-- but it doesn’t. All the repetitive ringing noise serves to do is draw Howard’s attention. 

Vince’s name blinks repeatedly on the screen; each flash reminiscent of the _thud_ of a hammer driving nails into a coffin. 

Even he can’t talk his way out of that one. 

Howard takes one step back from him, remains frozen for a moment like he is mentally preparing himself to say something. But in the end, he must decide it isn’t worth his time. In a manner much too calm for how his large hands tremble, Howard hands him the dye stained towel and makes his silent departure from the room. 

The phone is forgotten. _Vince_ is forgotten. Jones’ focus rests solely on scrambling for some clothes so he can chase Howard from the room and salvage him from his own conclusions. 

***

The character of Jones is completely forgotten when Vince realises how hard it the rain is coming down outside. At that point even the dramatic effect of his exit is not worth ruining his hair over. 

It leaves him cross legged on the floor beside the front door rather than exiting through it; phone in his hand as he pointlessly attempts to to call Jones _again_. There had already been a handful of attempts, but each one rings through to voicemail, and leaves him fretting anxiously over why the other man isn't answering. Surely multiple calls over the course of a few hours is enough of an indication that Vince requires his attention urgently. 

Each missed notification was the equivalent of Vince himself screaming: _pi_ _ck up the phone you prat, there’s a crisis._

In reality, the lack of communication was not that surprising. Howard could be a bit strict about phones during work time; given that Vince had once spent an entire shift playing _Snake_. Howard Moon was not above confiscating a phone. Vince calling all the time may have ensured that Jones' mobile found itself in a precarious state of 'time out' until after the shop closed. 

Sometimes referring to Howard as a teacher was less a tease and more an accurate summation of his character.

So, left to his own devices, Vince uses his time sulking by the door to scramble together a plan of some sorts. Plan being a strong word, what he does is use his mental imaging facilities to run through various possible conversational routes; does his best to place himself in Jones' shoes and assess how he'd approach the situation. Would he be sympathetic to Dan's obvious angst or would he stand for himself instead; maybe a healthy mix of both. 

No matter how he looked at it, it was obviously going to be an intense balancing act.

Jones must be an expert at delivering tough love, where Vince was much better at one or the other. He was brilliant at providing comic relief to Howard's angst, at sidling up to his shoulder and muttering that everything would be okay. Granted, he wasn't often required to be tough, but he _could_... If he needed to. But Dan appeared to struggle with extremes of either. Vince had coaxed him into soft conversation last night to find himself being pushed away this morning. He'd tried being tough on him in return and found himself getting wound up enough to leave-- Jones was a magician in Vince's opinion. He'd found a sweet spot somewhere along the line of their eight year friendship that Vince had no hope of replicating without more time to practice. 

Two days and he was starting to feel the strain of it. 

He'd been annoyed with Howard before, enough to leave his own flat-- but this anger for Dan was something new. It wasn't rooted in familiarity and affection. It wasn't a warm fizz of irritation that came with someone you know pissing you off. That was a bit like a flash of lightning, intense but you knew it would pass. This was an ice cold kind of anger. Frostbite on his insides as a result of genuinely being hurt by the things someone said to you.

Which, logically he knows the things Dan had said-- implying he was stupid and a junkie respectively-- were not actually about him. Rather they were sentiments born from concern for a person Vince was pretending to be. That didn't stop them stinging though. It was a bit like catching someone slagging off your best mate behind their back, and Vince had always been _viciously_ protective of his friends.

No one's ever really been allowed to take the piss out of Howard when Vince is around, and people have tried. But an insult coming from Leroy's mouth just isn't as funny as when it comes from Vince-- there just isn't the same fondness to it. 

And in this most recent argument, the choice of ammunition had been _low_ even for Dan. 

Vince had spent his entire performance as Jones wishing he knew more, and yet, now that he knows he feels a bit terrible about it. He's not saying he'd gone behind Jones' back for the information, but that's how it feels. Which only adds to his irritation to Dan. Regardless what had gone on in Jones' past, no one deserved to have that rubbed in his face by their supposed best friend. 

If anything, what Vince most wants to get through to Dan was that _this is not how you treat people you love._

They're reaching an hour and a half of Vince's sulking when, in an act Vince struggles not to find completely _shocking,_ Dan seeks him out. 

Ashcroft limps into view with all the grace of a drunken spaniel. A combination of his hangover and the pain of his leg has his face contorted in a grimace; forgoing painkiller the night before was more than likely a point of regret for him. He hobbles over to Vince's side and begins the awkward process of lowering himself to the floor. Vince might be annoyed but he isn't heartless, he offers a hand for Dan to latch onto and squeeze through the worst of the movements. Sharp breaths are hissed through his teeth and his eyes pinch into even smaller slits but otherwise he doesn't let on how much it effects him. 

Once he's settled, broad palms brush and knead over bare skin, like he might be able to alleviate his hurt with touch alone. 

Jones had alluded to the fact that the window incident wasn't too long ago, that Dan was still very much recovering from his jump, but seeing the long pink line of a recent surgery scar dragging across Dan's bare shin was a stark reminder just how broken this person is. Not just mentally but physically too-- it's another item on the ever growing list that's making Vince feel way out of his depth. 

“You utter tit, what you walkin’ around for?” It's almost painful how much he sounds like Howard when he scolds, but it is a completely necessary evil when it comes to Dan and his self-destructive tendencies. “It’s like you _want_ to be in agony.” 

“Sometimes it’s nice to know I can still feel it.” Dan mutters, glancing away shyly. He doesn't allow Vince to dwell on the inherent sadness of that statement, Dan is already moving them on conversationally. “Been a long time since you stormed out on me. Years.” 

Vince certainly hadn't been expecting an apology from Dan, not by a long shot, the man didn't seem like he was comfortable using the word ' _sorry'_ at all never mind using is while sober. But that was so far from any expression of regret that Vince has to wonder why he even bothered coming out to find him.

It's at this point he thinks it's time Dan has a taste of his own medicine. There are plenty of responses Vince had come up with in the past hour that would be apt for Dan's attempt at a conversation starter. Most of them were suitably pissy, too. Real corkers of sarcasm. Extravagantly dramatic exclamations of his outrage. But he bites his tongue. The only response Dan is going to get from him is the squint of his eyes in an Ashcroft level glare and the hard set of his jaw. Stubborn silence. 

What he forgot was that Dan was the inventor of this tactic and they're left glaring each other down for at least ten minutes-- and he's used to a stubborn Northern bastard glaring him down but _christ_ \-- neither of them saying a thing, both equally as frustrated and unwilling to cave first. 

Eventually, Dan comes to the conclusion that he's being punished and sighs heavily. He scrubs his palm over his bearded cheek. "Sorry you're upset."

It's a good impression of an apology. But it isn't one. It's a crude imitation of a thing that allows Dan to completely bypass accepting any responsibility for the part he played in Vince's upset and rather shift all attention to the reaction rather than the action that caused it. It's clever, but Vince isn't so stupid that he doesn't recognise one of his own tactics when he sees one. 

He had lost count of how many times over the years he had found himself in a similar situation to this; Howard annoyed because of something he had done, and Vince grovelling in the hopes of saving their friendship. Did he ever face up to the part he played in causing Howard's upset? No, but he was often sorry that it had happened. Which is why he is perfectly placed to know that this kind of apology does not fix the problem, merely patches it up messily until next time. 

And Vince is supposed to be here to teach him lessons, not to allow him to continue the same destructive patterns. 

“You’re sorry I’m upset?” He repeats, hoping to convey his disbelief enough in that question alone. In the back of his head _“It’s not enough, little man, I need a gesture.”_ echoes repeatedly as a reminder what a bitch he's turned into recently and how the first step to fixing it might be learning through his experiences with other people. “Are you for real? I’m only upset because of _you.”_

Dan winces. Vince thinks, _good._

“Alright, I’m sorry about that too.” Dan's apologies sound like they're ripped from him unwillingly. Most likely because they are, but there's another layer to it. A kind of tired acceptance that speaks to how much Dan agrees with summation of his personality; understands he behaves like a dickhead, but is simply so used to character assessments like that one taking place in his own head. 

Much like Howard, Vince thinks Dan's internal monologue wasn't very nice to him. 

“Okay,” Vince says, Dan mistakes is for forgiveness and begins to sag against the wall prematurely. “Which bit are you sorry for.” 

Dan stiffens once more. “Uh… All of it?” 

The universe may as well be taking clips of Vince's own behaviour and showing them to him how obvious the parallel becomes in that moment. Off the top of his head he was reminded of handing a cape to a homeless man as if that one act alone made up for the utter disregard Vince had shown for Howard in the first place. For the lying. For his attitude. For all of it. And like Jones with Dan, Howard had clearly been letting him get away with his behaviour for too long. 

“No, Dan, I need to know _specifically_ why you’re sorry.” _And I'll try to do the same from now on._

There wasn't much he could do for Howard from here, but he could try his best for Dan right now. 

“What are you, my therapist?” 

“ _As if_ you have a therapist.” Vince cries. “It took half a bottle of whiskey and a snog for you to be even a _little_ honest with me, any therapist of yours would surely lose their license within a week.” 

Joking hadn't been his intention, but as previously stated-- Vince was much better at the love side of tough love, and watching the startled amusement bloom on Dan's face is enough to set him beaming right back at the man. Dan was harsh, and grumpy, and about as complex as a word puzzle upside down in the middle of a labyrinth, but Vince didn't think he was a bad person. He was a man stuck at a point in his life that needed help. He was lost and a bit scared, but if he could lay strong enough foundations for Jones to come back to then maybe they could see the other side of this. 

And that was only a little bit because Vince-- as loathe as he is to admit it-- was a bit of a hopeless romantic and he wanted there to be a happy ending in this for all of them 

“I’m sorry for insinuating you were stupid.” Dan says then, like the appearance of humour was enough to convince him this painful bit of discussion was going to be worth it. He can't look at Vince as he speaks though, and it's clear he has already begun to struggle verbalising the things going on in his head. "And the rest of it I didn't mean-- I'm not cut out for worrying like you are, Jones." 

"Sorry, is worrying a thing people are cut out for?" Again, the intention is to sound stern but his tone lends itself more to amused disbelief. "It ain't like singing or somethin' people don't have a star quality that makes 'em good at worrying." 

Dan rolls his eyes, but it's a fond motion. "That's not what I mean and you know it." 

"Sorry I can't hear you over my Olympic Gold Medal in worrying." Vince replies, sarcasm might not be becoming for most people but to Vince it's practically a language. 

Dan reaches out to swat at him for his attitude, and Vince sticks his tongue out in response. "You're unbelievable, you say you want me to talk and then you shut me down with your facetious attitude." 

"We all have hurdles to overcome, Dan," Vince continues, remarkably maintaining his acerbic manner. "I just happen to be yours." 

"Does that make me yours then?" 

And yeah, Vince can imagine Jones saying almost exactly in those words. So he nods. Bobs his head with a smile that he hopes display enough of the affection Jones no doubt holds for him. It's encouraging for Dan, who decides to continue on his road to opening up despite Vince's snappish responses. "I know I'm difficult. I know... That it isn't easy for you living with me either. What I meant was, you know how to hold yourself together... Mostly." Vince smirks at him for that comment. Dan goes on. "And on top of that you manage to hold me together. I can't do it on my own, I get a bit--"

"Shitty?" 

"Yeah." Dan sighs. He hasn't made eye contact with Vince once throughout this entire discussion. Rather choosing to falsify his attention by looking at Vince's mouth or slightly to the left of his face. It was a nice effort at least, but it reminds him so much of Howard's panicked glances that he melts in it's presence. "And I behave--" 

“Like an _utter_ wanker?” 

“Do you mind?” Dan snaps. "I'm trying to be honest here." 

"Sorry." 

They lapse into silence. Vince manages to keep himself buttoned long enough for Dan to gather himself. Despite wanting to reach out and offer comfort in the form of contact he finds himself reluctant. The air around them is still and even the slightest movement might disturb it. Might disturb Dan's process of winding himself up to his confession. 

Finally, it comes. 

"Behaving like an utter dickhead, as you so eloquently put it, is a lot easier for me to cope with than how worried I am about you." Dan admits. "I can understand that. I know how to process it." 

The admission hangs there; almost certainly what he was trying to get at last night but the meaning is much more coherent without the alcohol holding him back. 

_I need you but I'm scared._

It's a sentiment Vince is more than familiar with, and this time he does not hold himself back on the comfort front. He sags beside Dan, tucks his head onto his shoulder with a fond sigh. "Maybe we _should_ get you a therapist," He says quietly. "Maybe then I'd have some free time. I could get lodes more done." 

Dan chuckles at him. "You think anyone would put up with me as long as you have?" 

"Good point." Vince hums at him. "But I'm going to need a pay rise." 

"Yes, because that's what you need, to be earning money." 

Vince hadn't considered that Jones might be the breadwinner in this household, but it made sense. A pretty successful DJ on the club circuit could do multiple gigs a night if he chose to do so, certainly if he had a regular slot at one of London's trendiest clubs. It had also been made very clear that Jones _owns_ this flat, and had done so by himself until a point that Dan had moved in. Which further begs the question why they continue to live in certain circumstances if Jones was potentially wealthy enough to turn their lives around. 

"Fine, but I want Saturdays off." Vince quips instead, prods at Dan's side with soft playfulness. "And if you want us to stop getting stroppy with each other you're definitely going to have to get better at saying what's going on in that head of yours." 

The way Dan turns a glare on him is all affection. “I said I'd try, didn't I? God you’re such a nag." 

Vince's mouth drops open in faux outrage at this accusation. "Nagging is a perfectly legitimate tactic to get you to do things you've promised to do. Especially when you make those promises pissed." 

In a wonderful display of a more fun-loving side to Dan, the man reaches out with two of his large hands and takes one of Vince's smaller ones between them, bringing it to his chest like swearing an oath to a Victorian lady. It's an open display of an often hidden sense of silliness to this man, as he snickers his way through a promise, "Jones, I solemnly swear with all of my honour that I will get better at talking to you." 

"See that you do." Vince erupts into girlish giggles, and Dan's face lights up in response. 

"But I have a condition." 

Oh. He had not anticipated Dan having anything to ask for in return. At least not while Vince was still around to hear it. But unfortunately, he finds that denying him might only add to his suspicion that something is amiss. So he ventures down the road of humorous suspicion rather than outright denial. "That sounds terrifying." 

"You have to take your own advice.” 

Which, in Vince’s opinion sounds a bit of a wasted demand. At least it does until he considers that Jones was only helpful at highlighting what _Dan_ was doing wrong in this relationship. There were almost certainly two sides to this story. 

Rome might be burning but it takes fuel _and_ a flame to set it alight. 

"What you on about?” 

“If I have to talk, then so do you.”

“I do talk!” 

"Yeah, about complete bullshit." Dan's smirk doesn't reach his eyes. Those usually warm brown irises squint with worry instead. "Don't think I haven't noticed, I lived with you for two years before I even found out your real name-- and that was an accident. You can't expect this to work one way, Jones, it isn't fair."

All he can really do is nod his head. It'll be a topic to bring up with Jones later. "Okay." 

"Okay.” The large hand still holding his gives it a comforting squeeze and then it’s gone. Dan is shifting restlessly beside him. “Now help me up, I need prescription strength painkillers and then you can take me for food.” 

Vince is so stunned at this relaxed form of conversation; at the invitation to do something together-- that Dan is _willingly extending to him_ \-- that he finds himself on his feet and offering his hands for support before he even knows what he’s doing. “Wha-- hang on what?" 

"I knew you’d go deaf from all that techno nonsense one day.” Dan blinks up at him. “We’re going out.” 

“Yeah I got that, prick.” Vince grips at Dan’s hands, tugs him to his feet with a wince of sympathy for how the older man grunts in pain at the sharp movement. “I was more confused why I’m expected to pay?” 

“Because, it’s compensation for the emotional hoops I’m being made to jump through for you. Demanding bitch.” 

He can't argue with that one. 

***

Howard did not appear to be the kind of man that would have mastered the art of a dramatic exit, it certainly seemed like a Vince trait. But in the time it takes Jones to snatch a blouse from Vince’s wardrobe and pull on some shoes in order to give chase, the man has made it not only out of the flat but halfway down the road too. 

Those ridiculously long legs of his were clearly useful for a quick getaway. 

“Howard!” Jones cries, raising his volume to be hears over the rush of heavy rain falling around them. Howard had at least had the time to grab a coat before leaving, Jones had not-- he's already shivering where he dodges puddles and ducks around soaked pedestrians to follow the retreating shape of Howard's back. "Howard, will you hang on a second!" 

Howard stops dead and turns on his heel. The sneer on his face is intense in it's disgust, enough that Jones finds himself coming to a jarring halt. Any closer than where he lands feels like he'd be swung for-- Jones doesn't know enough about Howard's temper to know if he's a violent man but the size of him means he'd rather not find out. 

It makes his heart ache how that expression of sheer annoyance melts away into startled concern as soon as he takes in Jones' rapidly soaking state of dress. "Vince, for God's sake you're going to catch a death!" He snaps, and it only takes a millisecond for Howard's brain to catch up with his mouth. "Or whoever you are." 

Screaming introductions at one another in the rain doesn't seem like the kind of thing that would end well for either of them. So Jones decides to skip that part of the conversation and instead focuses on the part that is going to save him from Howard's disdain and Vince's later fury. "Will you please come back to the flat?" 

Expecting him to simply agree was perhaps a little far fetched. 

“Do you know the worst part? Normally after discovering you weren't real I’d be worrying about _him._ It's almost always him saving me so when he get's into trouble I have to do the same, that's our bit. Our double act." His top lip is twitching in an expression of his fury. It's an act Jones is intimately familiar with from the other version of this face. Instinctively, he curls his arms around his body. Plants his feet in preparation for whatever Howard's anger might look like. "Should I be worried? Is there any reason at all for me to put myself through the emotional turmoil of his absence or is he actually in on this?" 

Jones doesn't need to answer that verbally. The way he casts his eyes to his feet must surely be enough of a response. 

"What's he up to? Where is he?" Asking these questions is actually a pointless venture. Jones does not get the chance to try and verbalise a response, Howard hasn't quite finished his tirade yet. "I dread to think where he pulled you from. He's a vain tart at the best of times but I never thought he'd go through the effort of cloning himself. Are you even real or did Naboo whip you up as a spare in case Vince ever get's bored enough to fuck off." 

Jones waits. Already he knows there is no point to him trying to interject with his thoughts and feelings. He is, however, getting a good understanding of what Howard's anger looks like. It's not a threat to him, if anything the way the man sways where he stands; nails biting into his own palms and his whole frame tense like a piano wire-- Jones thinks he may be more of a risk to himself. But approaching him sounds like a bad idea until this has run it's course. 

He's willing to bet Howard's anger is a thing bottled up periodically until there's nowhere left for it to go. 

"Is he ever going to come back?" And for a moment, searing anger is doused by sadness. Just for a moment though, soon the emotion is pulled under once more by the ebbing waves of Howard's reactions, and he lands right back in the arena of fury. "Or is this the time one of those 'musicians' finally captures his attention long enough that I become a distant memory? Suppose I should be grateful I got enough of a thought that he put you here. At least I won't be lonely." 

No more words come. Howard drops his chin towards his chest, brings one hand to cover his eyes, and takes three distinct deep breaths. Jones is worried for a moment he might be witnessing a proper breakdown but soon enough he's tips his head up once more. Sets his shoulders in as much a display of strength as he can manage. And he cocks an eyebrow at Jones like it's his turn. 

At least he was right about Howard's temper-- All noise. No action. 

A thrilling whizzbang of a firework and then only eerie silence left behind. 

And while Howard's chosen place for his outburst was the middle of a street, Jones feels like he needs a bit more privacy than the public affords them. So he takes a few careful strides forward, palm up like approaching a startled dog. Howard lets Jones slip his cold fingers between Howard's warmer ones; he has to pry his fingers out of the tense fist they are curled in first, but the contact makes the taller man lose some of his tension. 

“Come back to the flat.” He pleads, and this time, any fight Howard had scraped together from his hurt is gone. 

Jones is able to lead him by the hand back to the safety of his home. 

Of course, the first thing Jones does is to start making tea from them both. Never mind that he is literally dripping all over the kitchen floor. Howard sets about peeling his coat from himself; all the while watching Jones with an expression of abject suspicion. It's like he expects at any moment to be attacked, or tricked into something horrific. 

“You should change out of those clothes.” Howard says, startling Jones into a laugh. Why that was the top of his priorities list, he'll never know. "I'll finish those." 

Jones considers this a moment, glances between the half boiled kettle and Howard's still panicked face. "Not gonna do a runner are you?" Except his joke misses the target, only makes Howard stare at him with a terrified, wide-eyed look. "Right then. I'll be quick." 

He just turns to strut down the corridor when he's stopped by Howard's weak frightened Voice. "Um-- How do you take it?" 

God he was going to put Jones into an early grave. "Same as Vince does, don't worry." 

Howard affords him a small smile, and then he moves to make tea with the commitment of a man who was desperately searching for any kind of normalcy in his currently upside down life. 

Jones does his best to not be gone too long for this reason exactly; Howard Moon is not a man that should be left alone with his thoughts for an extended period of time. He strips the wet clothes from his body in haste, and then reaches for anything in Vince's wardrobe that might make him look more like himself. For whatever reason, he thinks the less he looks like Vince the easier Howard might take this-- will be able to differentiate between the copies with more ease if he tries to dress as anti-Vince as possible. 

An aged t-shirt and some worn jeans; and of course, he drags his fingers through his hair so it is less straight and more frantic-- just to complete the differences. 

Thankfully, upon returning, Howard has not in fact done a runner. He's settled himself on the sofa though; stiff as a board and antsy like he's waiting to be interrogated rather than simply have a conversation with someone. 

The way his face shutters over in disbelief as he enters the room is only a _tiny_ bit good for his ego. 

"Alright?" He greets gently, to which Howard can only shrug. That is a fair response, Jones had been in his shoes a few days ago and he hadn't exactly been jumping for joy about it either. 

Jones folds himself into the smallest shape possible on the armchair, guessing Howard would appreciate the space being left between them. He does, he relaxes a little in response. Jones chooses to cup his tea to his chest and go back to waiting. Howard will start a conversation when he's ready. Though it is a little painful to watch all the expressions cross his face; the way familiarity has been edged out and replaced instead with the harsh sting of suspicion. More than anything, it's like watching any hope he had of remaining friends with Howard after all of this was over going down the drain. Anxiously, he tugs at the chain around his neck and it's witnessing this action that jolts Howard into conversation. 

"Are you real?" 

Not the first question he'd been expecting, it startles a chuckle from him, but Jones does nod his head. "Yeah. I'm real... At least, I think I am. If your wizard flatmate made me then he did a good job of giving me a fake life so I didn't click on." 

"And you're not from through a mirror or-- or out of an egg or anything?" 

Jones actually chokes on his tea. "An egg? Did you seriously just ask me if I came from an egg." 

"I've seen stranger, I'd like to know what I'm dealing with." Howard hastens to explain, seemingly more concerned about offending Jones than anything else. 

But, already, Jones knows Howard's intention would never be to upset him. Even in his anger in the street it had never once indicated that Jones was at risk of being a target for that anger. If anything it was a calculated release specifically to ensure that no one but Howard suffered the consequences of his own feelings. Howard will never be mean enough to insult someone properly, he doesn't think. 

"Okay, yeah, I understand." Jones comforts. He sits forward in his seat, holds his hand up and flexes his fingers in demonstration. "I'm a person, just like you. Born in London, lived here my whole life... I just happen to look identical to your Vince, that's all." 

Howard accepts all of this information with a distant glaze to his eyes; perhaps it would have been a comfort if he was some kind of alien. It seems, in that at least, Howard and Vince know what they're doing. It's the real parts of life that they struggle with, and finding out your flatmate has swapped places with an identical of himself? It's too normal compared to the other options, therefore-- terrifying. 

“What’s your name?” Howard finally rasps. 

“Jones.” 

“And where's Vince?" 

Howard looks so terrified of the answer Jones finds himself offering his reply with a comforting smile. "My flat." This however, only serves to make Howard’s already twisted features contort even further in their confusion. "We sort of swapped with each other; you know like Prince and the Pauper?" Howard doesn't reply with words, but Jones notices the heavy frown on his face. How his brows bunch into annoyance once more. "Don't be mad with him, Howard, this is as much my fault as it is his.” 

“Oh no need to worry, I'm suitably annoyed with the pair of you-- I just know him well enough that I'm guessing it was his idea." Jones hasn't got the lying skills nor the desire to try and deny that one. Howard's already smirking at him, but it's not amused, more bitter. "Thought so." 

"Look-- Just give him a break, yeah?" Jones is actually pleading at this point. "I know you've gotten into the habit of blaming each other for every little inconvenience in your lives but for once just know he did this for you." 

Disbelief was an understatement for the way Howard gapes at him. The pinched eyes scream incredulity, and where he had been tense before the regurgitation of such an uncomfortable topic-- meaning the topic of Vince and Howard-- means he looks about ready to shatter into a million pieces with the slightest touch. 

It's at this moment Jones realises what an advantage having this secret come out could be to him. He had made some progress as Vince, he now had the opportunity to accelerate this progress into real change with the input of an outsider. No longer would he worry over what to say because it might not be something Vince would say, he could speak his mind and use it a source of help. 

"So... Why did you do it, then?" Howard asks, once again using a divergence tactic to avoid talking about himself. "What are you getting out of living his life?" 

“Other than pretty clothes and good company?" Howard flushes adorably at this compliment. "He's fixing my problems and I'm here to fix his." This information catches Howard's attention; he sits forward in his chair. Eyes attentive and body language open. Jones opts to be upfront about it. "Vince told me you weren't getting on recently, and I was in the same predicament, but we were a bit scared of having to do all the talking so.." Jones shrugs, rather anticlimactically averts his gaze to his own fidgeting fingers. "So we decided we could be brave for each other." 

"I knew he'd never cut his hair without spending weeks worrying about it." Howard's joy at this one instance of noticing a difference is short-lived, because Jones is shaking his head. 

"We did cut his hair, actually." Jones averts his gaze shyly. "And then dye it too." 

This time, Howard chokes on his tea. "You what?" 

“I, um, my hair had red highlights before this.” He explains. Howard's eyes dart up to his mussed hair in response and then back to his face; Jones can't maintain eye contact for long. When he was Vince he felt a lot better equipped to cope with it. Now it's back to being intense and blush worthy. "We had to make sure Vince would look like me." 

Howard bobs his head in sudden understanding. “So that’s why my towel took a dying.” 

“I thought that’s what gave me away, to be honest.” 

“No,” Howard sighs, drags a palm over his features tiredly. “No, Vince has to dye his hair to keep it black, I was just annoyed he-- you-- had gotten it all over out _white_ towels.” 

Howard relaxes the more they talk, it in turn does wonders for helping to keep Jones calm. “Can I ask what gave me away? I had thought I was giving an Oscar worthy performance.” 

Howard’s eyes drop to Jones’ chest again-- the fact it is now covered does nothing to dissuade his wandering eyes-- dipping low to his waist. “There’s a scar on his hip. Got pissed and fell asleep on some straighteners a few years back. Not the kind of thing that just disappears.” 

It takes every ounce of self control Jones possesses to not ask exactly why Howard is _that_ familiar with Vince’s body-- supposes twenty years of friendship leaves you a tad shame free, and they did share a bedroom-- and instead to tease, “Good to know it’s not something I could have done differently. I’d be kickin’ myself for the rest of my life if it had been something daft.” 

Comfortable enough to find humour in the situation, Howard smirks over at him. It is amazing how he manages to stay so calm in among all of this bizarre information; how even as Jones is turning his last few days upside down he manages to emit an aura of such stability that the panicked screech of alarm that had been ringing inside Jones' head ever since being caught begins to quiet. 

Though, considering the tales that had been told to him, this was perhaps as casual a Sunday brunch for Howard. 

Howard may not be the sunshine child Vince is; might sport a more fractured side. But they were both incredibly unique people that he can suddenly understand much better why they continue to orbit each other even with their stark differences. Now he isn't trying to be one half of the duo, it's plain as day. Vince is the embodiment of joy, made of passion and laughter and yet at times can be an insufferable brat, while Howard is stubborn and moody, but equipped with gentle understanding and _so much_ affection to give to the people around him. 

Two halves of one whole. 

And suddenly, Jones ached for Dan. 

“He really sent you _just_ to talk to me?” Howard snaps Jones from his quiet reverie. He nods his assent. “But why couldn’t he do that himself. He _never_ has any trouble talking.” 

“Howard,” Jones sits forward, tries his best to appear sincere even as his amusement threatens to spill from him. “You are both excellent at talking, but the things you say are not the things that need to be said, are they?.” 

Howard narrows his gaze suspiciously at him; Jones may as well be speaking tongues if the way he seems to struggle with his comprehension. “I don't understand?” 

"What I mean is, as fun as it is to listen to you talk about stationery or jazz or any one of your topics of knowledge... I think it would be nice to talk about serious things once in a while wouldn't it?" Jones doesn't miss the way Howard's gaze darts away guiltily. "The pair of you are dancing around each other all the time aren't you? Pretending you're not arguing more than usual and hurting over it And having chat like that, it's scary-- even for Vince. He's all false confidence you know." 

"I know." 

Slowly, it's beginning to look like Howard is understanding what he's saying. "All those chats we've been having they scared the pants off you, yeah?" 

Conflicting emotions fight for dominance on Howard's face. Not just the horror at realising he shared deeply personal conversations with a complete stranger, but also the outrage at being referred to at being afraid of anything-- even a chat. 

Before he can sputter indignation, claim to be a man of action, Jones cuts him off. "Howard? I'm not Vince, Please don't feel the need to go through you big brave man of action routine with me, because it ain't gonna make me swoon the same way. I'm jus' trying to tell you what I know, that I'm here to help it you'll let me." 

Howard's gawking has gone from annoyed to out and out admiration. Awe would be a perfectly apt word, the way his gaze flits from Jones head to toe and eventually settles with his gaze locked on his. A rare snippet of eye contact that almost floors Jones. He has the same vulnerable face as Jones, and it makes him melt like warm Nutella to see. 

“I should have noticed sooner.” Howard declares, a mutter of a thing. “You don’t sound like him at all, now that I know.” 

“Oh yeah?” It was quite clearly another way for Howard to avoid talking in any serious capacity, but Jones is successfully tempted into letting it happen. “How we different then?” 

“You sound… Smarter.” 

“Wow.” The admission startles a laugh from him, mostly because Jones is completely unused to being referred to as smart. Leaving school at fifteen and having no education to speak of since usually left him as the stupidest one in any given social circle. “I wouldn’t say that to his face he’ll go mental.” 

“I don’t mean it like that!” The way Howard hastens to explain. “Vince _is_ clever. So much cleverer than he gives himself credit for, he just isn’t good at articulating it. Struggles to talk about things without using elaborate fashion metaphors or literally playing charades to tell me how he’s feeling.” 

Jones can see that. He remembers chatting to Vince in the smoking area of a loud club and getting no straight answers about his age, or his background. Remembers the panicked look on his face as he’d had to try and explain what had gone wrong between himself and Howard-- all the gaps in the story even as he had.

Jones doesn’t dwell on that too much. “Well, this is the first time anyone’s ever called me articulate.” The grin Howard gives him is all pleasure at successfully complimenting someone. Jones doesn’t want to dwell on that either. He moves to press himself to his feet. “Look, I think you need a sec to decompress, mind if I shower? My hair’s disgustin’ after that rain.” 

“You don’t have to ask, you’ve been using it for two days.” 

Jones shrugs one shoulder nonchalantly. “Well I’m not Vince anymore, am I? It’s not my shower.” 

Howard can’t disagree, Jones smirks to himself as he goes.

***

Despite almost certainly not being as financially stable as it is implied Jones is, Vince does in fact pay for them to eat. 

Well, he pays for Dan to eat a suitably greasy meal that will hopefully work wonders on banishing his hangover. Vince himself settles for a milky cup of tea that he stirs five sugars into-- ignoring how Dan frowns at him the whole time-- because he finds his appetite simply hasn't survived the roller coaster of a few days he's been having in Jones' life. One of the first things he is doing when he returns to his own home is to beg Howard to make him something delicious. 

He does the most amazing cheese toasties. 

The place is a typical working man's cafe, populated entirely by builders and labourers. The pair of them had settled by the window, Vince staring out at the rain and Dan was content to watch Vince watching rain, so they end up existing in a comfortable silence. It's comfortable enough right up until the point Dan pushes his empty plate away from himself and digs a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offers them out to Vince. 

"Pass." Vince arinkles his nose as he says it, which is a mistake, because Dan jumps on that like a hunting dog on a rabbit. 

“Are you going to, at any point, tell me what’s got you so pissy these past few days?”

Which really, he should have seen coming. Jones was a smoker, and Vince wasn't. It would probably not have been much of a problem had Vince been any good at faking it, but trying his first cigarette the night previous had left him coughing and spluttering like an idiot and Dan watching him with utter disbelief. It was an experience he was in no hurry to repeat. 

“I dunno what you’re on about.” Vince tries his best to make the dismissal as insouciant as possible, but it’s clear it doesn't work. 

Dan rolls his eyes, no fondness, only annoyance. "You realise you don't look _nearly_ as composed as you think you do?" He utters, voice a low threatening rumble that makes Vince sink further into his seat. 

Sulking was something he could get away with at home, but where Jones was clearly used to whipping Dan into shape from his moods, it was obviously a practice that went both ways. Because this time, it is Dan doing his best to pull Vince from his foul mood. 

"Don't do that." Dan snaps. 

"What?" 

"Get moody with me." 

Vince can't help it, he cackles a bitter laugh. "Are you really telling _me_ not to get moody? That's hilarious." 

The worst part is, his mood was for no good reason. Nothing was actively upsetting him, not really. Nothing except his own exhaustion for the act. Realistically, he knew Dan's prying questions were only out of care and concern for Jones but what it was translating to for Vince was more work. More lying. More losing himself to a person he isn't.

Jones is better than this. Jones is resilient against Dan's moods and his prying brown eyes. Jones is strong, and Vince simply isn’t. 

His ongoing silence is mistaken for guilt almost immediately. 

Dan is fiddling with his lighter and it's the only thing that gives away how anxious he is. “If there is something you need to tell me--” 

“I’m _not_ using.” 

“A clue as to what’s going on would be nice, then.” Dan snaps back, though the rest of his body remains oddly calm. It's a strange juxtaposition, how his voice conveys such emotion but his face remains blank and calm. How he puffs away at his cigarette with the relaxed action of someone who couldn't care less. 

It winds him up more than the repetitive insinuation that he's on drugs does. 

The best course of action now was going to be to move Dan away from this line of questioning. Which, Vince can do, easy. His natural born talent was talking. Distraction was his forte. The thing Dan forgets is that not only can two people play at this game, but one of them is going to be better at it than the other. 

“Wanna give me a clue why do you still work for Barley if you hate it so much?” He demands. 

Dan assesses him coldly. Its clear he knows exactly what Vince is doing but he makes no effort to stop him, rather he seems to decide that playing along is going to be the path of least resistance. “Not like I’ve got any better offers, is it?” 

“God,” Vince sighs Perhaps wrongly, he finds himself smirking with affection for this hopeless man. “You just live and breathe pessimism don’t you?” 

“It lives and breathes me, actually.” 

“You should quit.” And if Vince says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world that’s because to him, it is. It’s a wonder a person as clever as Dan hadn't already executed this plot all by himself. Especially when he has the privilege of sharing a living space with a successful DJ, who not only already supports them financially, but would also give one of his limbs to see Dan happy. The support network is there, why isn’t he taking advantage of it? “It clearly makes you unhappy to do it, so just don’t.” 

“We can’t all just do what we want, Jones, it doesn’t work like that.” Which is Dan’s not very subtle way of making another dig at his supposed drug habit, he supposes. “I signed a contract, I have to honour it.” 

“Ain’t there a hoop?” 

And if Dan wasn’t already looking at him like he had grown a second head, then that sentence alone would have inspired it. “Are you _sure_ you’re not high?” 

Vince's frustrated energy starts to spill from him without his control. He drags a napkin from the centre of the table and begins to tear it to shreds just to prevent him doing something stupid like slapping the man opposite him. His feet tap against the floor and his weight shifts where he sits. "Why did you even bother to apologise if you're just going to repeat the same _bullshit_ a few hours later?" 

Dan's lip curls in frustration. "Because I like having answers as much as you do so I-- So I can help you." 

“Dan, for _god’s sake_ , please listen to me. I am not. On drugs.” This time Vince's voice isn't even annoyed-- he hears his sadness, stark as a neon sing in a dark night. 

_I’m just not who you think I am._

Dan considers him. Sits forward on the table so his arms rest against the grimy surface, without being invited to do the same, Vince does. They almost meet in the middle, heads titled to one another. Dan locks eyes with him and Vince knows a challenge when he sees one-- Dan thinks he can literally see if he's intoxicated or not and he is welcome to try. Vince has nothing to be afraid of.

No wonder Jones was reaching the end of his tether is this is what their friendship had become; an endless and vicious cycle of them getting annoyed with one another, apologising, and doing it all again. 

Rinse and repeat their own heartache. 

Thankfully, whatever Dan sees in Vince’s face is enough to convince him of his innocence. For now at least. Knowing this man, the topic will not be completely dropped until he finds out exactly what it is bothering his friend. Which adds another tiring layer to this act that honestly… Despite it being his idea, Vince is coming to regret. 

It had been enjoyable at first but he’d never felt so far from _himself_ before. So far from Howard. 

“Alright, I believe you.” Dan sighs, reaches to take a healthy mouthful of his coffee and continues their earlier topic like they hadn’t paused for a strangely charged staring match. “I still haven’t got a _fucking_ clue what you’re talking about, though.” 

Oh right. That. “Don’t contracts normally have hoops?” 

Dan’s staring goes from confused to overtly amused in the blink of an eye. “You mean a loophole don’t you?” 

“Yeah, that’s what I said--” 

“No it fucking isn’t.” 

And while Vince is completely used to getting his wording wrong-- he thought that it was the Specific Ocean for most of his life-- and Howard being there to correct him for it, it never made him feel stupid before. It was almost an act of affection between them now. Vince would say something stupid, Howard would look at him with this smile that was just for him; all warmth and playful puppyish joy. He'd correct him and they'd move on. 

This isn't like that at all. 

Dan isn't doing it intentionally, but the way he snickers into his cup at Vince's expense makes him feel like the biggest idiot on the planet. It's not laughing with him it's laughing at him and Vince finds himself pouting with more intensity than he first intends to. He scowls down at the table, too, just to properly confirm how upset he is at this development. “Shut up.” 

“Oh don’t be a baby,” Dan reaches out with confident fingers and urges Vince's face up from where it has dipped low. Encourages him to make eye contact. “You forget how many times you’ve tortured me over typos in my work.” 

And the idea that Jones had at some point got his own back for this kind of teasing in a way Vince never could, that does comfort him. He allows himself a small grin. “That’s different, those are hilarious.” 

“What’s hilarious is that you can dish it out but you can’t take it,” The soft fingers retreat from beneath his chin. Dan reclines in his seat once more, exuding casual charm where he beams at Vince. “Are you going to finish your point?” 

“I just reckon you could probably do something that actually makes you happy,” 

Which earns him a disbelieving laugh, the saddest point of this entire interaction, he thinks, the fact that Dan has lost faith in ever being happy that the sheer notion of it is bitterly amusing to him. “I’ll never understand where you get your optimism from, you know.” 

There is enough of a hint at more of Jones’ history that Vince has to restrain himself from leaping over the table and shaking at Dan’s shoulders for an answer. Honestly, it’s a real question if he thinks he can handle more convolutions to the tale of his doppelgangers existence. It’s already placing his sunshiney self under a thick grey cloud.

Dan decides that conversation is finished before he can explore further, anyway, and more importantly, decides that they should be going home. “Come on then, if it isn’t a relapse making you twitchy then I’m willing to bet whatever it is means you’ll want your music.”

It is amazing how Dan manages to slip in and out of this caring persona almost at will. And honestly? Tiring. Upsetting too. It's like getting emotional whiplash each time, thinking this will be the one time Dan commits to his affection and then a moment later he's back to a sulking mess. Vince was used to pulling off looks and personalities for weeks on end if he needed to, and yet, he was already hoping to hear Jones ask to switch back tonight just so he can get back to his own sense of normalcy.

When he had suggested this, he really hadn’t taken into account how emotionally exhausting this kind of thing could be. 

Nor how much he’d miss Howard. 

***

Returning from the shower finds that Howard has not moved other than for the chance to make himself a second cup of tea. 

Adorably, there is also a fresh one waiting in front of where Jones has been sitting. He is unsure if Howard making two teas is out of sheer habit, or if this was an intentional kind of peace offering.

Either way, sinking into the armchair once more and tucking the warmed ceramic to his chest is a nice kind of domestic feeling that allows him to grin over at the other man. 

While a lot more calm, Howard is still looking at him as if he is something to be wary of. Which is understandable, and not something Jones was going to fault him for. Though he will take the relaxed slant of his shoulders as a personal victory. 

“How are you feeling?” Jones asks with as much cheer as possible. 

“I’m not sure there’s a correct answer to that question.”

Jones snickers at him, and for whatever reason that’s what Howard needed to come to the definite conclusion that Jones is not a threat to him. Any remaining tension ebbs away like air escaping a balloon, and his fingers grip a little looser around his mug. The floor, for all intents and purposes is his. Jones makes this known with a little nod of his head, silent permission for all the questions behind those sparkling eyes to come spilling forward. 

“What do you do?” Is what Howard wishes to start with, apparently. 

He can’t help himself really, the utter mundaneness of the query when there were surely far more interesting things he could be asking. It sets Jones away giggling like a schoolboy; his ribs ache. There are tears gathering at his eyes. For a moment, Howard seems annoyed at being laughed at but it lasts only as long as it takes Jones to peer up at him through his fringe. Then, Howard is tumbling along with him and it was exactly like the previous night again. 

Just friends being idiots together. 

“For god’s sake Howard, you just found out your flatmate has a double and you’re asking me about my _job?”_ He screeches over his own snickers. 

Howard covers his face with his hand, a habit he has when he laughs, Jones has noticed-- which is a shame seeing as it covers up his grin, “Well forgive me for trying to be polite, sir.” 

“I’m just sayin’, no ones gonna blame you if you have more important questions than getting to know me,” One deep breath, an exhale, and Jones manages to pull the pieces of his scattered self back together. “I’m just the spare part, here, after all.” 

“Don’t say that about yourself.” Howard scolds. “You’re a person too-- even if you do bear a frankly terrifying level of resemblance to my flatmate.” 

“It is pretty terrifying, I nearly punched him when I met him.” This makes Howard’s eyes widen in concern. “I didn’t, obviously. But I was shocked, you know.” 

Howard just nods at him in understanding. “I’m not sure what I would have done had it been me meeting an exact double of myself, either.” 

And that right there was a topic Jones didn’t want to broach yet. One freaky double was enough for today-- maybe Vince could break it to him that he had a doppelganger running about London. Either way, Jones moves the conversation along. “But if you're really interested.. I'm a DJ." 

As it happens, Howard is _very_ interested. All apprehension drops at once, he sits forward eagerly with an excitable demand of, "I knew Vince would never know how to fiddle with my set-up like that!" He cries. "What do you make?" 

"Techno mostly but I liked what you had going on last night, you're good." Howard flushes, unused to compliments on his work probably. "I mean it. When this is all sorted I reckon I could take some of your stuff and find an audience for it. People love weird stuff like that." 

"Oh I don't know." 

"Don't worry, I wanna work with Vince too." 

And that, seems to be the tipping point. Howard was only interested in success if he could share it with someone, it seemed. "Then.. That would be nice. I think." 

"Good..." Jones beams at him. They settle into a comfortable silence. Jones is a bit hesitant to let it get too comfortable though, not when a quick glance at the clock reveals it is already past the time he promised to call Vince and sort out their respective situations. This could all be about to go wrong for them again with one phone call. 

“What happens now?” Howard asks, voicing exactly what Jones himself had been thinking. 

“Well… I promised to call Vince so...” Jones sees Howard’s eyes widen in a strange combination of fear and relief. “I need to go and talk to your flatmate. And then, then we’ll see?” 

It’s the most afraid Howard has looked since Jones met him. 

He understands why.

***

Vince's phone doesn't get the chance to complete one ring before he is snatching it up to answer. 

Dan had gone out over an hour ago, claimed he had something to go and pick up from Barley's office and when Vince had offered to go with him he had been told it was fine-- which almost certainly meant Dan had the intention of doing something other than just going to the office. If Vince wanted to bet, he'd say the pub. 

Since then Vince had been sulking on the sofa with a bag of sweets he'd scrounged from the kitchen and a magazine from Jones' bedroom. 

"Jones!" He greets, the relief in his tone palpable. 

"Hey Vince," The man replies, and it is already indicative of something being wrong. He's too... nervous. 

"What happened?" Vince shoots to a sitting position, one of his hands automatically darting to his chest in his panic. "Howard? Is Howard okay?" 

"Vince-- Howard's fine, we're all fine nothing happened." It's the tone of a parent trying to break the terrible news to their child about a pet passing. All confused and somber, wondering where best to start. It grates on Vince's already freaked out nerves. "Well, nothing _bad_ happened." 

"Jones please just tell me, I really can't handle much more of this." 

Something in his tone gives him away, because it's suddenly not at all important what is going on on Jones' end. "Hang on, are _you_ okay?" And then, Vince practically hears the penny drop. "Wait you'd been calling me all day, I should be asking you what happened. Did he do something?" 

Vince shuts his eyes, scrubs his hands against them like he can order his thoughts into something more comprehensive. "Sort of, we had a fight this morning and both of us has been on edge all day since." 

"Oh, Vince... I'm sorry, I know what he can be like." 

"Yeah he..." Vince clears his throat, gnaws on his lip anxiously. He had spent all day running this conversation through his head and now that it came to it he wasn't sure what to say. How do you tell someone you know what they've been through because their best friend brought it up in a petty fight? How do you hope to make that sound not _awful._ You can't. You just have to say it. "He thinks you relapsed, Jones." 

Silence. 

In fact silence for so long Vince considers hanging up the phone to save his credit and let Jones call him back when he has properly processed this revelation. And normally, where Vince would be leaping to offer comfort he finds that it doesn't feel appropriate; this is all Jones process. He needs to work through it in his own time. 

There's a rustle of fabric on the other end of the phone, Jones is perhaps sitting himself down. Vince does the same, lays back comfortably on the sofa and allows their mutual breathing down the phone to act as a support network. Eventually, Jones finds it in himself to speak. "I'm not, Vince, I promise." 

"Shut up, idiot." Vince's laugh is relieved and breathy. "I know you aren't! I'm not accusing you-- I got into a fight with Dan over it. I trust you." Which is perhaps problematic given how little they know once another, but it inspires a similar breath of relief from Jones. "I just thought you should know... Maybe you might know how I can convince him he's wrong? I think he's on the verge of figuring me out since, you know, that's what he's seeing as different." 

"Uh, yeah, about that--" 

"Unless, we can swap back now if you'd like?" Vince hopes he doesn't sound too eager, like he's giving up. Thankfully, Jones sees preoccupied with something else. _Someone else._

Someone is talking in the background and there's no way he would ever _not_ recognise the rumble of those low northern tones. 

Howard's talking to Jones. While he's on the phone to Vince. 

_Is he insane?_

"Are you on the phone to me while he's in the room!" Vince cries. "What are you thinking." 

"That's what I wanted to tell you, actually." Jones clears his throat, turns his face away from the phone to _shush Howard_ and Vince's heart sinks into this shoes. "Howard knows." 

"Oh." 


	9. You better get your story straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jones tries his best to help Howard adjust to this development. Vince's struggles come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to extend a heartfelt apology for the length of time it took me to update; but do know I have all the remaining chapters outlined, and the end is in sight! Enjoy this chapter!

_“Howard knows.”_

_“Oh.”_

There is nothing surprising about the silence that descends on the other end of the phone. It was quite the revelation, and Jones had been prepared for all kinds of backlash. He had steeled himself to be yelled at, or even potentially hung up on. When considering this conversation, he had perhaps assumed what he’d get was either screeched expletives or panicked inquiries, considering Vince at his very core is a vocal creature. Silence wasn’t the option he had expected the man to go with, but it _was_ an option. 

And the lack of words says as much as a monologue would have. 

The fear rolling down the line in thick cloying waves; the apprehension, the betrayal, the overwhelming unease. Like at any moment Jones was going to follow his statement up with, _“Oh, and he never wants to see you again.”_

All Jones can do is wait it out. 

Vince will find the words for what he’s feeling in his own time. And much like the other man had done for him at the news of Dan’s distrust, Jones is more than happy to let the feedback loop of their ragged breathing act as a form of reassurance. It’s comforting for them both. This mutual sense of emotion connects them through the phone line. 

What _doesn’t_ help is Howard’s presence. 

There’s nothing in him that wishes Howard would leave, not in the slightest. He is after all just as involved in this as the two younger men were. But he wishes the man wasn’t _as eager_ to be involved as he clearly was; all while pretending he was _not at all_ eager to be involved--because it was a little bit of a distraction. 

Not long after he had disappeared into the bedroom to make the phone call Howard had followed on his heels like a forgotten puppy; been hovering over his shoulder by the bed where Jones sits ever since. Every little thing he strains to hear. The way he fidgets it’s like watching a horse in the starting gate. He twitches and bounces; vibrating with anxious excited energy. Ready to bolt at any moment but stuck in place for now. Jones had already had to shush him once, because as soon as Jones had insinuated that something might be wrong with Vince ( _“_ _Hang on, are_ you _okay?"_ ) the man had been taking up his peripheral vision, buzzing around like a blue bottle. One that would not stop muting things like _“What’s happening?”_ or _“Is he in trouble?”_

It at least proves that no matter how initially upset Howard may have been by the rather startling realisation of the switch, he couldn’t stay mad at his best friend for long. They would easily be able to come back from this so long as every one tread very carefully from here on out. 

“Is he there?” Vince finally asks, small and feeble. 

And when Naboo had first warned him about being in the middle of London's two biggest idiots, Jones had almost argued that it was nothing compared to himself and Dan. Like this, though? Genuinely sitting in between two men who so desperately want--and _need_ \--to be speaking to each other… he thinks he knows what the shaman meant. 

Jones turns where he is sitting upon Vince’s bed, “Howard?” He repeats, giving enough of a warning to the older man about where this conversation is going. At once Howard takes a step back, head shaking rapidly from side to side. 

“Yeah,” Vince says, there’s still no confidence in his tone. He sounds like a deflated balloon looks. Lustreless. A bit sad. “Can I talk to him?” 

Jones has been aware since he arrived that there was something between these two. An almost magical ability for them to understand one another on a cosmic level. The looks Howard would shoot him sometimes were no doubt like a second language to Vince--one Jones had no hope of translating without more time. If one could believe they read each other as well as that then it is no surprise that through this mystic power, Howard knows exactly what is being said over the phone. Exactly what Vince was requesting of him. 

Especially because almost as soon as Vince asks, Howard immediately turns tail and runs from the room faster than a rat up a drainpipe. 

“Oh.” Jones sputters around his excuses, mentally curses Howard’s cowardice for leaving him to explain this alone. “You-- You just missed him, he’s--” 

“It’s okay.” That secondary language must somehow work even on Vince’s side of things. Jones has never been a brilliant liar, but even with that he’s fairly sure Vince already knew what had happened with the way sadness overcame him. “He’s mad?”

“I don’t think mad is the right word, if I’m honest.” Jones thus far has not been anything but honest with Vince--well, other than selectively forgetting to mention some things--and right now it was more important than ever for them to understand each other. For the sake of everyone’s relationships. “Confused, maybe. A little hurt.” 

“Fuck.” The other man heaves a deep breath, curses again. “Shit.” 

“Vince? It’s okay.” It’s perhaps a severely underwhelming thing to say to a man who sounds on the verge of tears. Breaths coming a little sharper and pathetic hiccupping noises filling his senses. “It’s going to be fine, I have a plan.” 

“Oh yeah?” Comes the sarcastic snap, and it is not in the least bit offensive to him how little faith Vince has in him. If the positions were reversed, he is sure he’d feel the same. 

“Yeah.” It’s like falling back through time. They’re suddenly in the bedroom again, all those days ago. Jones prickly and untrusting; Vince drenched in his optimism and beaming over at Jones like he was the answer to all of his prayers.. Except this time it's Jones asking for a leap of faith. He isn’t as well versed in the surrealist lifestyle Vince leads, but he thinks a few days in his shoes is leading him to be a bit more open to crazy ideas than he might have been back then. 

He can do this. He can help. 

His free hand toys with the chain around his neck. Here goes nothing. “Let me stay here for a few more days?” 

All at once, Vince’s shock and outrage comes pouring down the phone. “You what?” 

“Hear me out,” To his credit, Vince does. Though without seeing him Jones can _sense_ the pout. It tickles against his skin uncomfortably. “Now that he knows I’m not _you,_ I think I might have a better chance at getting him to open up to me.” 

Vince mulls this thought over in more silence. The echo chamber of their shared breath the only thing convincing him Vince is still on the line. It doesn’t feel good, this side of plan making, and Jones has a new respect for Vince being the kind of person that would put himself out there like this so easily. Waiting with bated breath to find out if his suggestion is worthy enough is frankly a little nerve wracking. 

“What do I tell Dan?” 

_And breathe._

Guiltily, Jones realises he hadn’t thought about Dan. At least not since the sharp stabbing sensation in his chest upon hearing the man so easily accuse him of relapsing on over eight years of being clean. Since then his mind had solely been on the track of Howard and Vince. 

It’s certainly a new feeling, not being consumed by thoughts of his melancholy housemate. But being _reminded_ that he hasn’t been thinking about him brings the problem screaming uncomfortably back to the here and now. Dan still didn’t know, and by his own admission believed Vince’s version of Jones to be off his tits on all kinds of narcotics. This suddenly was much more complicated than just keeping up an act. 

By rights, he hasn’t the authority to ask Vince to keep up this game, not when he has already ruined it for them. Not when he’s now involved in the sordid history of Jones and is going to have to battle with Dan’s abject suspicion every moment he spends in Jones’ shoes. But in the same vein, he isn’t sure how Dan will react to this news. 

“It isn’t my place to decide that for you, Vince, but, If you want my opinion?” Jones drags a palm over his face. He’s done nothing but chase Howard in the rain today and yet somehow he feels as if he’s perhaps completed a triathlon. Exhausted and weak. “You need to make sure he’s in an alright place mentally before you tell him. Because I really can’t predict how he will take this.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it” 

“Text me? Keep me updated?” 

“Yeah.” 

Silence. It’s still not going well for him over there, by the sounds of it. Jones wishes there was more he could do other than utter, “It’s going to be okay, Vince.” 

“It doesn’t feel like it.” It’s a whimper. Nothing more than the whimper of a wounded animal; cornered, terrified, giving itself up to the predator. 

“He just needs to wrap his head around it, that’s all.” Jones hastens to explain. “You guys live a crazy life but this is still… Hard to process.” 

“How did he figure you out?”

"Oh," And this is at least a place he can bring a bit of a giggle to his new friend. "You never told me Howard was gonna know what you look like without clothes on." 

It's a bit like static, the way Vince begins sputtering down the line. A combination of his embarrassment, shock, indignation, maybe even a little bit of denial. Though no words form, no conclusive ones anyway. There's the jumbled half formed squawks that might have intended to be words, but they don't quite make it. 

"Apparently I'm missing a scar?" 

The sputtering stops, it is instead replaced with a squeak of utter shock. “I never even thought-- What were you doing naked with him?” 

There’s no real accusation to his tone, if anything it’s more morbid curiosity. But Jones can feel the ink droplets of distrust staining his voice; and he can’t blame him. If he had found out for whatever reason Dan was viewing Vince in a less than clothed manner he’d be pretty desperate for an explanation too. “I wasn’t _naked,_ he walked into the room while I was changing!” 

Any tension leaks from the other side of the phone. “Oh, yeah, he’ll do that.” 

“You guys don’t really have boundaries do you?” He asks, all soft teasing and gentle fun. 

“As if you can talk, Dan does the same thing.” Vince rolling his eyes is something Jones can hear now. “Which is arguably worse considering you’ve shagged each other.” 

“It just means we don’t surprise each other anymore.” Jones shrugs him off. From somewhere in the flat there’s the sound of a door slamming. A lisped expletive. Heavy pad of what Jones assumes is gorilla feet. “Listen, I better go.” 

“Okay… Jones?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Jus’ be gentle with him, he can be a bit…” Vince pauses, struggles for the right word. “Flighty.” 

“I will.” And he swears it like an oath. If there’s one thing Jones can promise now it’s that he’ll do everything in his power to take care of Howard. “Bye Vince.” 

***

If there’s one thing on this earth Vince understands better than anything else it’s Howard. 

So he knows for a fact Howard was avoiding talking to him while he was on the phone to Jones. Had practically heard the man’s anxiety ringing like a klaxon; it had drowned out the rest of the conversation on Vince’s end. It was hard to focus on his double’s placating words when all he could hear was the residual static of Howard’s conflicting emotions. 

And the sad reality is, he doesn’t know _how_ he would fix it, but he _would_ fix it. Vince could always coax Howard from a mood; through the process of trial and elimination he would eventually find the right method of damage control, and he’d patch up the cracks in their friendship until next time something went wrong. 

This time there is nothing he can do. Because he’s not there. His double is. The same double that had just talked him into two more nights in this switch. Vince isn’t usually a control freak--definitely not to the level that Howard is--but he _does_ like to maintain a certain degree of authority over situations. The power balance in his relationship with Howard may be constantly shifting, but at least Vince always knows _where he stands_.

Like this? Barely fifteen minutes journey away and yet somehow feeling as if they were on opposite ends of the world? Vince has no idea what position this revelation has left him in. There’s no possible way to gauge Howard’s feelings, never mind begin to react to it. It’s a bit like being stranded again, but this time there’s no one else. Just himself and his usually dulled sense of pessimism. 

Vince is a sunshine child but he’s powered by external factors that keep him so joyous. His love for fashion, excitement for his music, the validation of the adoring Camden masses. Attention from Howard. Cut off from everything in the world that keeps his batteries charged means he’s less sunshine and more raincloud. The negative thoughts get pretty loud with nothing else to drown them out. 

It’s a lot to deal with. The rejection, the questions, the inevitable decision he is going to have to make about Dan--wondering what state that man was going to come home in--and how to potentially explain away this whole situation . 

It’s been such a long time since he had felt anything close to self-conscious about his relationship with Howard that this jealousy coiling around his insides is completely foreign. Even when women came along, it wasn’t like this, Vince was certain enough in Howard’s ineptitude with the fairer sex that he knew it was highly unlikely the man would ever run off with any of them. Did he sometimes act out to draw his attention back? Yes, obviously. But there had rarely been a true belief of Howard’s intentions to abandon him. 

But this was different. The whole situation was an unknown. 

Jones and Howard might get on _too_ well now that they had the chance to form a real friendship. Someone like Jones; fresh to this relationship and carrying no baggage to get in the way of their interactions. It was surely much better than what Vince, with all their complicated history, could offer him. 

Vince and Jones were similar enough in all the right places--their humour, their faces, their positive attitudes--that Howard might just find a new best friend in his copy. The older man was a sucker for positive attention, and Jones was perfectly placed to give him that right when Vince hadn’t been able to recently. 

Jones was in a position to do exactly what Vince does but _better_. Honestly, it isn’t even that hard to do it better; Vince has been doing a pretty terrible job of it as of late. Almost as bad as Dan had been doing with Jones. And Vince certainly didn’t have the reasoning behind it that the older man did; he wasn’t an alcoholic or broken or anything like that. 

He was just a bit of a bitch. 

Which of course brings him back to the issue of Dan himself and what to do for the next day. There’s a small part of him that thinks it might perhaps be easier to keep this act going rather than get wrapped up in the explanation. And Jones did have a point--Dan was a delicate being despite his gruff persona. Trying to predict how he’d receive the news that his flatmate had swapped with a double and dashed off to play house with someone else was like playing darts in the dart. You didn’t know what--or who-- was going to get hit in the process. 

How do you even begin to explain to someone like Dan that doubles were a thing? That not only did Jones and Vince have identical faces but there was someone at home who had Dan’s face too. 

It was a lot. 

And Vince’s usual form of therapy when he was feeling down was to reinvent himself into someone that wasn’t _unhappy_. Using makeup and hair products; he’d form himself into a confident person like a glamorous butterfly emerging from a cocoon of insecurity, and in that process would forget his troubles almost completely. Or at least force them back into the box that they came from enough to ignore it. In this house there was no real opportunity for him to do that. 

Sighing, Vince decides to do the next best thing. Jones had a bathtub, no one was going to be bothered if he decided to sit in a bubble bath for over an hour, were they? 

***

As soon as he’s off the phone, Jones is chasing Howard down. 

The man hadn’t gone far. It was as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to run away completely, but also needed to put more distance between himself and the phone through which Vince was talking than the small flat would allow him.

He’s fiddling anxiously with the stationary collection that he so lovingly calls a village, and Jones sidles up to his side easily. Perhaps a mistake, Jones had gotten so wrapped up in the excitement of being able to be himself around Howard that he had already forgotten about his aversion to touch. Vince would worry about how close he might stand to his friend, Jones does not. He’s reminded promptly when Howard flinches away from the fingers that Jones touches to his wrist. 

“Sorry!” Jones apologises immediately, placating hands raised by his head. “Sorry, Howard.” 

Howard brushes him off with an awkward jerking shrug, replaces his focus on the tiny plastic bus he has in the centre of his stationary street. He’s pushing it backwards and forwards just to give his hands something to do. Jones dutifully takes a step back to allow him his space. “Wanna talk about it?” 

The way Howard squints over at him is like Jones has just begun speaking French. A complete lack of understanding for why anyone would ever want to talk to him about what he’s feeling. It’s at once as heart wrenching as the rest of the situation is--has anyone ever bothered to sit Howard down and really talk to him? Invited him to express his emotions properly? Or was it more a case that no matter how hard you attempt to get him to open up he finds it too hard to scale his own emotional walls. Either seemed equally as plausible. 

“You couldn’t have looked more eager to escape the bedroom--Vince wanted to talk to you.” Howard shrugs at him. Jones realises Howard is definitely part of the reason he never talks about his inner workings. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a five year old; it would be beneficial to have a picture book of emotions for Howard to point at. Would certainly be easier to decipher what was going on in his head that way. “Are you angry with him?” 

“I don’t know.” Howard sighs, and it’s comical how even this large gruff man can pull off a pout. He does not elaborate any further. 

Jones has to continue to prod if he wants answers. “Well… _why_ did you not want to talk to him?” 

The little plastic bus is abandoned, instead paperclips are plucked between large fingers and twirled repeatedly. Strips of Sellotape are flicked. Tiny balls of blue-tack are rolled about in their little garden. Howard is stalling. “I wouldn’t know what to say to him.”

Which, firstly, is bullshit. Jones has known Howard a few days and already knows this man can find a conversation topic in anything with Vince. They could likely spend forty five minutes discussing the intricacies of pigeons or the benefits of alternate dimensions; but the second they would be forced to talk about anything real they faced a problem. Secondly, he’s not entirely sure that Howard didn’t have things in his head he _wanted_ to say--he just was too scared to say them for fear of the bite back. 

When, in all honesty, Howard would be entitled to his anger in this situation. He struggles to see how Vince could ever turn this around on Howard even if he tried. 

“You could have said anything,” Jones reasons. “ _Hello, I’m pissed you swapped yourself with a fake--”_

“Stop calling yourself that.” 

Of course that’s what Howard would focus on, Jones rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. “Howard, will you let me finish my point.” 

“It’s just weird hearing negativity come out of your mouth.” Howard argues back--proving that he is more than capable of voicing things that bother him in the right circumstances. “I’m supposed to be the fractured self-deprecating one not…” 

“Not Vince?” Jones chuckles fondly, at least in this he can see why it might be a little odd. Even knowing Jones is a different man, they still look _identical_. There was going to be an adjustment period. “Well I’m not him, sorry. Now listen to what I have to say.” 

It’s a tone that he uses with Dan a lot. No nonsense, commanding, the reason why the older man--despite being a big, grumpy, stubborn piece of shit--was what some people might call well trained. Because while Dan was bull headed, Jones was equally as unyielding. Many man hours had been spent with the pair of them attempting to argue the other down, and more often than not, Jones won. If not just because after a while Dan lost all effort in order to fight, but also because Jones by his own admission was relentlessly feisty when he perceived himself as right. 

Howard’s jaw clicks shut in the wake of this tone. He blinks at him owlishly. 

“My point was,” Jones carries on, reaches out to carefully (very carefully) plant a hand on Howard’s upper arm in an act of comfort. “You’re allowed to say what you’re thinking you know. You shouldn’t be scared of talking to each other.” 

The typical response Howard had tried to give earlier, the ‘I’m not scared’ doesn’t even manifest this time. He likely already knows that while Vince would nod his head in a manner intended to mollify; a motion of _‘yes of course you’re not scared, ‘oward’_. Jones was an entirely different creature; he isn’t built to please. Jones is more likely to call Howard on his bullshit the same way he’d go chest to chest with Dan and scold him out of a foul mood. 

Both doubles were headstrong, but Vince knows how to pick his battles better than Jones did. “I’m just saying you’re never going to get anywhere with him if you keep letting each other run away.” 

As unused to the confrontation as he is, Howard continues to do just that. He retreats into himself and reverts to fiddling with his stationary instead. 

Jones is reminded of that very first day in the man's company, attempting to start a conversation only to watch him become a frozen statue of his former self. Mind running wild circles inside an unmoving shell of a man. It’s a little the same, only this time Howard clearly hasn’t frozen, his fidgeting fingers give him away. But he is trying his best to appear shut off from the conversation. 

“What happened between you two?” Jones asks instead, changes tact. He’s learnt Howard quite well these past few days and he knew going at him like he’d go at Dan wouldn’t work. He needed to reign himself in--again. 

“Didn’t Vince tell you the whole sordid tale?” It’s muttered with as much petulance as Howard can muster but--unsurprisingly-- there’s real hurt in his eyes. 

“He told me _his_ side of it.” Howard peeks at him, all vulnerable and confused. “But I want to hear your side of the story.” 

It’s a bit of a risk. Howard already found it rough to articulate exactly what he was thinking; and with his world being a bit flipped upside down by this revelation and everything else that is going on in his life. There’s a real chance Howard will just refuse. Shut himself up like a frigid clam. No thoughts or feeling’s coming from this mouth, no sir, not when he can continue to pretend to be the kind of big strong manly character that never lets himself succumb to pesky things like _emotions._

Howard is quiet like this for so long that Jones almost gives up and retreats back upstairs to allow Howard the space he’s so clearly desperate for. Perhaps investigate whatever Naboo and Bollo have been up to earlier with all that noise that had disturbed his conversation. 

“I hurt him.” Cuts through the silence, is whispered on the breeze--so soft that Jones almost thinks it wasn’t Howard talking. Stationary is abandoned, he shuffles over to the counter and slumps into the stool behind there. “I hurt him and he started pulling away from me.” 

Which is almost exactly the story Vince had told him. Except even in his retelling Vince had been open to the parts of the crash that had been his fault. Had admitted to ripping pieces of their friendship apart through quitting the band. Explained how those pieces of a relationship were tossed into the air like confetti as he behaved like a brat. It’s a positive thing to accept your own faults, almost certainly, but Howard should not be bearing the brunt of this blame.

“I don’t believe that.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t believe it’s _all_ your fault, Howard. I’m sorry, I think looking back on it you’re choosing to blame yourself but I think it takes two to tango and neither of you are solely to blame… So why do you insist on focusing on your own guilt?” Jones takes a step toward where Howard sits as he speaks; arms gesturing wildly. Howard is staring at him like a lost child looks at a stranger--hoping for help but terrified all the same. “It’ll eat you up, Howard.” 

Howard shrugs _again_ and Jones didn’t know he could hold so much disdain for an action. It’s not like he can get annoyed about it, though, because Howard is only playing into his role. The cards he was dealt by the universe. The script that was written for him. Howard is the dull negative character and Vince is an optimistic but bratty one. One too many arguments have tainted them both even further from their stock; and now Howard’s default response is to pretend he has nothing to say. 

That, and he feels the blame lies with him because he doesn’t know _how_ to blame Vince. 

How could the sunshine child ever cause anyone this much pain? He couldn’t. But a tortured soul like Howard? Well, it’s perfectly reasonable that he’d be bringing this on himself. So Howard chooses to believe that. 

“Tell me, _honestly_ , what happened.” Jones pleads. “From your point of view.” 

Suitably scolded, Howard takes a moment to think of his replies. Jones approaches slowly, so not to spook the other man, and then climbs up onto the counter. His legs are tucked up and crossed. He sets his hands in his lap, leaves his posture open in a display of his willingness to listen. Howard peers up at him, swallows thickly, and begins to talk. 

“I think it started when we got back from America…” 

***

After his bubble bath, Vince had deemed it late enough in the evening that secluding himself in Jones’ bedroom and sleeping through to the next morning was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. It’s not like he had any better option what with Howard canoodling with Jones and Dan still out getting inadvisably off his face. 

Stripping down to his pants; he slides between the crumpled sheets of Jones and Dan’s shared bed, wriggles to get comfortable on their slightly tough mattress. He still isn’t used to the unfamiliar scent, the washing powder that definitely isn’t the same brand as what Howard would use. The lingering hint of stale smoke and whatever aftershave it is Dan uses a constant reminder how far from home he is. Though, underneath that there are tiny traces of something familiar. Hairspray on the pillow that was almost certainly Jones' mark; ink, from Dan he’d bet, but it reminds him of the days Howard would try his best to use one of those fancy fountain pens and spill the inkwell everywhere. 

Duvet pulled to his chin, Vince closes his eyes and tries to force himself into sleep. 

Of course, why would he be allowed to do that. It would be too easy to let him sleep his troubles away, wouldn’t it. To let him skip over at least twelve hours of this nightmare his initial great idea was turning into. He’s barely dozing--caught in that limbo between asleep and awake that leaves you dream drunk and barely aware--when the rattle of the front door startles him further into wakefulness. 

A large body is pulling the sheet away from Vince enough to slide into the bed beside him, and all he can do is grunt the perpetrators name into the pillow where his face is pressed. Expressing as much annoyance as his still sleep soft brain can manage after being so rudely disturbed. 

Well, what he _thinks_ is the perpetrators name. 

“Who’s Howard?” 

Reality reforms around him like a picture coming into focus; shifting from a fuzzy almost reality to stark clarity. It’s by sheer magic he manages to not panic about what he’s just said, instead remains prone with his eyes closed, pretending for all the world like what he said was _totally normal._ He does this for about thirty seconds, gathering all the calm he possesses and when he’s ready--in an impressively measured manner--Vince peeks his tired eyes open to take in the man beside him. Dan has rolled onto his side, head propped on his hand and peering down at Vince. His features are twisted with hurt and… Jealousy? 

Okay. He can fix this. This kind of reaction is better than the other man drunkenly demanding answers Vince isn’t ready to give. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” Which, even as Dan snaps it, Vince _knows_ is rubbish. His eyes are squinted suspiciously, mouth twisted in a venomous frown. And much like Howard, shortly after his denial of anything being wrong, Dan goes ahead and spouts exactly what is on his mind anyway. “Didn’t know you were seeing anyone, that’s all.” 

“Oh for _god’s sake_.” Vince rolls onto his back, scrubs one hand to his eyes in the hopes of waking himself up a bit for this discussion. Though, he’s mostly putting his annoyance on. Dan thinking Jones is secretly shagging someone is better than him having accidentally outed himself before he’s ready to explain. “Is this what you do now? Rock up pissed and accuse me of any random crap that comes to mind?” 

“It’s not an accusation if it comes with evidence.” Dan’s words are a bit slurred but they don’t sound _drunk_ slurred. If anything it's the kind of rough speech that comes with exhaustion. 

“You haven’t got evidence.” 

“I do.” And despite his attempting to incite an argument between them, Dan is failing to conceal a smirk. “Would explain why you’re acting so off with me if you’ve got some bit on the side.” And though Vince is certain Dan isn’t drunk--he must be a bit tipsy. Before he can protest Dan is pulling the sheet away from his body in order to peer obviously at his bare chest. “Not covered in hickeys are you?” 

“Piss off!” Vince cries, snatches the sheet back to his chest. “I’m not seeing anyone, I barely leave the flat--you arse.” 

Which was apparently true even before Vince was playing this role--Jones had a very different definition of social it seemed--so you’d think that perhaps Dan would be sceptical of Jones having any kind of relationships outside of theirs? 

But there’s such hurt and disbelief behind Dan’s eyes that Vince has to wonder if this is maybe something they’ve come up against before? Vince knows what it’s like to be trapped in the back and forth of a friendship that has the _potential_ to take the next step, but for whatever reason, never has. He is more than familiar with the act of seeking comfort in the arms of strangers, and how unfulfilling it was in the long run. Though, in the short term, did a wonderful job of filling an emotional gap. 

Has Jones paraded partners in front of Dan before? 

Somehow, no, he thinks Jones is not the type to be as indiscreet as Vince himself has shamefully been in the past. Would conduct his dalliances somewhere out of sight and out of mind. If not for Dan then certainly just for his own personal sense of secrecy; Jones likes to keep his business his own. 

Which while good on some levels, at least Dan might never witness Jones _‘covered in hickeys’_ , also has plenty of negative consequences. For instance, if they both pretend having other partners is something to be ashamed of, how were they ever expected to move on past this need for one another. People who aren’t interested in rekindling a lost relationship don’t hide the fact they’re seeing other people, do they? 

“And I’m not acting off with you,” He adds belatedly, perhaps a little too late. Dan is pinning him with a stare that’s much too sharp for however many drinks he may have had tonight. 

The silence is deafening. 

“You are.” Dan eventually snaps. In the blink of an eye he’s gone from stoic and calculating to a huffy, grumbling child. The kind of emotional expression he only starts demonstrating when he finds semi-comfortable conversation. “I just haven’t figured out why yet.” 

And as much as he could roll over and ignore him, that would likely only set Dan off on a more intense investigation. As he is coming to learn, Dan may be a quiet man on the surface, but he’s insufferable when he doesn’t understand something. 

So he thinks, _fuck it._

“Do you want to know why I’m acting so weird, Dan?” Vince mutters petulantly, the other man perks up in attention. His scruffy head nods eagerly. Vince turns his head enough to make defiant eye contact. “It’s because I’m not Jones. I’m a double that looks exactly like him. We met in the bathroom of a club and he sent me here to deal with you because you’ve been a bit of a shit recently.” 

Dan blinks at him for a long time. A frankly terrifying amount of time. Vince thinks maybe he’s having an internal meltdown. He’s certainly the kind of person that would appear fine on the outside while his brain frantically ran in circles trying to decipher exactly what the fuck he’s just heard. Should Vince check him for a pulse? Maybe call for help? What if he’d made a mistake being that blunt about it. 

But then, “Alright, fine, be a brat about it.” 

Of course, he forgets that to people who weren’t used to a life like his. Dan may have experienced some strange occurrences, Nathan Barley in and of himself was a bizarre character to behold, but he wasn’t exactly dealing with mythical creatures and alternate dimensions on a regular basis was he? Jones bumping into an identical copy of himself while on a night out might be a bit out of his circle of belief. 

Without finding a way to convince him, Vince was likely sounding like a petulant kid making up lies so their friend would stop bothering them. 

And he was just too bloody tired to have this discussion anyway, the residual hurt from his phone conversation swirling in his veins, draining him of any desire to bicker with Dan. It means when no further conversation seems forthcoming, they settle into a rather uncomfortable silence. Because Vince certainly isn’t interested in trying to be explicitly understood right now. He may as well go to sleep and work on that in the morning when he felt less like a puddle of incomprehensible emotion. 

Except Dan clearly isn’t done with this discussion and gripes. “It’s just very unflattering when I climb into bed with you and you say another man’s name.” 

It takes all the willpower he has (which is not a lot) to not engage with that discussion again. Because some people were like dogs with bones when they wouldn't let a topic drop; Dan was rather like a shark smelling blood in the water. Insatiable. Hungry for answers. Relentless in his digs and jabs and Vince was just _not_ in the right frame of mind to guard himself against it. 

The best defence mechanism he had was his ability to answer questions with questions, to drive people in conversational circles with his incessant chatter. And that's what he does. 

He musters all the bored, bratty, insolent energy he has in his body and asks; “Why _are_ you in bed with me, Dan?” 

It works to an extent. The suspicious jealousy melts away and is instead replaced with mortification. The shame of someone who was showing their hand without meaning to. “Because it’s not even eight o’clock and you’re in bed. Normally I’d find you playing music loud enough to peel paint off the walls at this time.” 

Vince isn’t heartless enough to completely disregard the man's unsettled nature; Dan was still very distressed over his out of character behaviour. Vince being in bed by eight o'clock was unfamiliar and he had responded the way only Dan Ashcroft could; by climbing into bed and inciting an argument. 

Vince feels his insides give a painful tug. There's a lump in his throat. Howard wouldn't talk to him and now all he was doing was driving Dan further and further into a pit of worry. 

He couldn't do a single fucking thing right anymore. 

"You're sad." Dan insists. Vince turns his head on the pillow. Laying on his back as he is, he blinks up slowly at Dan. The other man is still on his side, elbow on the mattress and head propped in his palm. It's the most serene he's looked since they'd met, Vince thinks. Not drunk but booze-soft, his eyes crinkling at the edges with an expression that can only be described as awe. There’s barely an arms length between them. Dan brings a hand up to brush reverent fingers over Vince’s cheekbone, then tracing along his jaw. Vince finds his stomach twisting. “Why are you sad?” 

“I’m not sad,” 

“You are,” He does it again, like he had at the party. Pinches his cheeks but Vince can't see the same humour in it he could then. There's only hurt and confusion and such sadness for every member of this ruined quadruple of people. “I know those eyes, these are sad eyes.” 

He and Jones share their 'sad eyes' it seems. Howard calls them his watery eyes; the ones that signal imminent tears. The kind of look that didn't even need a pout, nor the dramatic stance of arms crossed over his chest. ‘Cause a look like this wasn't about the need to demonstrate to people around him how he was feeling. Rather when Vince felt like this, he wanted to keep it to himself. Curl up in a tiny ball and make himself the smallest target possible. To be clear, what he's feeling is _distraught._

The thought of Jones and Howard in his home together was suddenly twisted in his mind. Despite the fact the pair meeting was by a plot of Vince's own design, he still feels like he has been backhanded by the universe. That Howard wouldn’t talk to him, but was apparently more than happy to cosy up with a double of him for another night or two spoke volumes to Vince. Even in the absence of actual conversation shared, the meaning was clear. _You have hurt me, but this version of your face_ hasn't. And Vince was going to spend god knows how long paying for this choice. He wasn't even angry about it. Logically there was nothing to be angry over but that would never usually stop Vince Noir throwing a hissy fit to end all hissy fits, but no. This time he couldn't find the tiniest thing to be annoyed over. He was just… miserable. 

It was a blessing for everyone involved, really. Lesser of the two evils for Vince to be gut-twistingly discontent rather than angry. 

When Vince was annoyed he acted out. He kicked back against his perceived wrongs. He got even with the powers that be for putting him through any emotion that wasn't his default joy. When Vince was irritated at an individual he behaved like a brat with the soul intention of making their lives difficult. If he had been angry with either Jones or Howard, there would have been a real risk of him doing something he might regret. Possibly with the man currently in his bed. It would probably have already been too late to stop it. 

Rather, as he is now, he just shrugs in the face of Dan's gentle questioning gaze. Unable to form words to explain his turmoil. Even if he could it was hardly the kind of thing you could just bring up casually. 

Dan doesn’t need an explanation it seems, whatever conclusion he has drawn is likely so far from reality and yet, it is enough. A sympathetic smile crosses his features, edges of his eyes crinkling with what must be an attempt to conceal his pity. But, like the man with two personalities he is, Dan opens his arms with a dumb goofy grin on his face and asks. “Do you want a hug?” 

The way Dan manages to make this insufferable changeability _endearing_ is talent like no one else will ever accomplish. And it’s so absurd that Vince is breaking into confused giggles before he can muster any will to stop it happening. He brings a hand up to his face to snicker into his palm, Dan watching on the entire time. It must have been something close to the reaction he was looking for, if the vague sense of smug permeating the air is anything to go by. 

“You’re like two different people, you know that?” Vince eventually sighs, the intent to reprimand him is completely lost to the swathes of affection he lays out instead. “Never know who’s going to walk through the door, the grumpy rude one or--”

“The loveable teddy bear.” 

“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?” It's amusing though. The confidence Dan has in himself was a bit of a breath of fresh air. Not as manufactured as Howard’s; who’s sense of pride was about as convincing as two children in a trench coat playing adult. But Dan’s? Even if he wasn’t ever certain of himself he seemed to have a good enough idea that he got by okay. The fingers still playing over his skin, speak enough to that fact. Unapologetic in their touch, the physical comfort more willingly offered than the verbal kind. Fingertips tickling at the hollow of his throat, Vince almost forgets he had more to say than a teasing jab at Dan’s self worth. Those fingers feel like they’re on a mission and he can’t see it being to somewhere innocent. Vince snags them, finding them too distracting. Dan responds by linking them with his own. “Shame you have to be drunk to be the teddy bear one.” He finally mutters. 

Rather than continue to look at Vince, Dan directs his gaze at their joined hands. “I’m not that drunk.” 

“But you have had a drink.” 

“I only had two.” To his credit, Dan looks pretty ashamed even when he nods his head in agreement. “I’m trying, Jones, I am.” 

Vince, still on his back, turns his face away from Dan. Content to not have to look at Dan for this part of their conversations. Dan doesn’t take to it that well, like Vince he’s not about being ignored. He sidles up to Vince’s side and tosses an arm around his waist. As unused to being held as he is, it takes a moment for Vince to settle into the sensation. Wriggling around against the touch, but Dan doesn't seem bothered. He just holds him tighter.

“I want to quit my job.” That gets Vince’s attention, he whips his head round to consider the other man, who is still cuddling him to his side like a lover. “I don’t want to work for Barley anymore.” 

“Is that why you’ve been drinking? Did something happen?” And Vince can see how Jones gets swept up in this. This utter care for the other man. In his relationship at home, it was a healthy dose of push and pull in terms of where the power lay-- but Vince didn’t often get to look after Howard. Not really. He could save him from monsters all day long but there was a vulnerable side to the older man that while Vince knew about, he wasn’t really allowed to approach. Where as Dan came to Jones with it in his open palms, asking for the younger man to look after him. Granted, it was a bit of a one sided deal-- but seeing him now. A little tipsy, vulnerable, mumbling at him under the cover of darkness, Vince wants to take him under his wing and look after him. “I swear I’ll go to his offices now and kick his arse.” 

Dan laughs at him as if he is a feisty toddler rather than a man threatening his boss. “Alright, simmer down.” He tugs him harder against his chest, Vince squirms. “Nothing happened. I didn’t even go to the offices.” 

“So… What brought this on?” 

Dan takes a moment, thinks about how he wants to deliver his answer. Vince waits, bated breath, feels the weight of Dan’s anxiety pressing down on both of them. This feels like a breeze of change; something is in the air and he can taste it. 

“You said it was an ultimatum.” Proving that yes, Dan does remember everything Jones says to him even while drunk. 

It’s enough to break his heart. How badly Dan wants to keep Jones in his life that he is finally making positive changes in his life. Though, arguably, the fact Dan’s only motivation to make changes in his own life was for the benefit of Jones was a little saddening. His own happiness was not a factor in his decision making it seemed. 

“You’re an idiot.” Vince sighs, turns where he’s cuddled to Dan’s side and tucks his face into his neck. “A gigantic bloody idiot.” 

***

Howard’s tale is equally as heart wrenching as Vince’s was. 

It seems that this man too understands the importance of whatever went down on that island. Howard tells it slightly differently though, his tale revolves around the fact that Vince launched a personal attack regarding his love life which led to a falling out. Howard acknowledges his part in alienating Vince through the use of coconuts… However it’s clear the fallout of the band hit him just as hard as it did Vince. 

_“That’s when I started to lose him.”_

He’d been doing pretty well at voicing the thoughts and feelings without much encouragement needed from Jones. It seemed once you got him talking he gained momentum with each word. As long as Jones remained quietly on the side-lines, pretending he was not there to hear these admissions, then Howard had no problem continuing on his verbal journey. 

But as he’d said that? Howard had snapped himself as far away from Jones mentally as possible. He didn’t move, but his gaze dropped away. Fidgeting hands stilled. Frame tense. It was like he was playing dead in the aftermath of exposing his weak self to a predator.

And Jones hadn’t known what else to do but to hug him. 

He slides down from the counter and bundles himself into the man’s space. Tosses his arms around Howard’s neck and buries his face there too. Howard stiffens, almost like he’s going to push the man away, but otherwise, he lets it happen. Jones hangs on until Howard settles into the embrace; slides his arms around his body and holds him back. It’s nice, it’s the kind of contact that Howard needs from someone that isn’t him, but Jones is the one who is here right now. 

Howard was so delicate when it came to expressing himself, like a foal stumbling about on weak legs and unsure how best to keep itself upright. And Jones knows he’s going to have to try his best to encourage him to show his truth wherever possible-- it’s the only way they’ll survive this emotional ordeal, if he learns how to talk about what he’s feeling--even though he’s a bit of a hypocrite in that area. 

“What happened after that?” Jones draws back but he maintains careful contact. He leaves a hand on Howard’s forearm, holding him gently, providing support the best way he knows how. By some miracle, Howard simply allows it to happen. 

And Howard does his best to talk through it all. There’s some steering in the direction of his own guilt, he trips over his blame for his use of a coconut friend. But then in the next breath will incite fault on Vince for then producing not one but TWO coconut girlfriends (Jones doesn’t know why he was shocked to hear about this madness being the root of their problems). It’s a real hit and miss situation with who Howard is going to rail against.

Vince might have ended the band but Howard went off and found new friends to hang out with too. Vince may have gone out so often he was barely home but to be at work but Howard started treating him like a simpleton in the shop. They both began to be cruel, no jokes were just jokes anymore. Everything went to hell. 

The conclusion comes in the form of an allusion to his birthday party. A pivotal moment in their friendship that Jones remembers Vince mentioning to him as well. The kiss on the roof. The way Howard talks about it is not the same as the ‘well romantic’ gesture Vince had painted it as. Rather, Howard seems to believe he was used and manipulated in an area he was particularly vulnerable. All so Vince could save his own skin. 

There’s still more to the tale, Jones knows it. Somewhere between that kiss and Jones entering their lives Howard had run off to Denmark and Vince had suffered the loss. But Howard isn’t so much talking about his experiences anymore as he is muttering them to the floor. His eyes are downcast. Glazed over like he’s operating on autopilot. He’s shutting himself off from feeling how much all of this hurts him to talk about. 

So Jones makes the executive decision to end the conversation. For Howard’s sake. It’s the most talking they’ve done in one sitting since he arrived and he knows the approach to take with Howard is to move in and then move back again; give him space to think and breathe. "Okay, that’s enough I think.” He declares. Already the other man is deflating with his relief. 

Jones leaves him enough time to sigh out his tension and then he is reaching for his hand and demanding, “Come with me, I want to show you something.” 

Thankfully, he is so struck dumb at this development of events that there’s no attempt to argue. Howard follows obediently up to the flat. And he doesn’t know whether it’s a subconscious action, maybe the man’s body reacting like a stranded man offered water in the face of such willing contact--meaning consuming as much as possible during whatever period he is exposed to it for--but Howard’s hand is clinging on a little tighter than is strictly necessary. 

It means Jones is a little heart broken when he has to nudge him into a seated position by the keyboards from the night before. Like he’s snatching a child’s favourite toy directly from their hands and throwing it off a bridge. Howard only looks a _little_ distraught to have lost the touch, which is a small blessing he supposes. 

Whatever distance-distress he is experiencing is quickly drowned out by the confusion of where he’s been instructed to sit, though. Clearly not where he expected to go. Howard’s brows climb in barely concealed curiosity as he is seated in the empty chair _beside_ the keyboards but not behind them. 

No explanation is offered either. Nothing other than Jones’ quick order of, “Wait there.” before he’s dashing off down the corridor to the bedroom. 

It’s a quick trip. Just enough for Jones to slip his hands into Vince’s secret drawer and retrieve the notebook he had been scribbling in the night before. He skips past the half formed lyrics of a potential future song and instead lands on something he was once over a little more practiced in. 

Sheet music. 

Messy, jumbled sheet music. The kind _he_ understood. Not as neatly drawn and disciplined as many would have it be. The lines were wonky and the notes were skipping across the page like drunken tap-dancers; but he’d know what it said. He’d always know, and it had been long enough since he’d tried out this language he felt it was perhaps time. 

No one has heard him do this since his grandmother was alive. But he wants to do it again, and for whatever reason, there’s something in his chest screaming that Howard was the right person to do it for. 

Returning to the other man’s side finds Howard watching him warily, hints of fear and trepidation blending quite smoothly with his unabashed wonder. The little glint of respect. Something like awe in there too. His tiny eyes lock onto the notebook, watch as Jones settles behind the keyboard and props the scribblings within reading distance. It’s a strange reversal of their position the other night. Howard now an observer to someone else playing his instruments. 

There’s a moment to prepare himself. To ensure what setting the keyboard was on was nothing more than a simple piano, that he was ready to commit to baring some of his soul like this to someone who--let’s be honest--didn’t know a single thing about him past his name and the fact he bore a startling resemblance to Vince. 

But as he had said once before. Some people took comfort in strangers. 

He plays. 

The first few keys trip him up. Muscle memory takes a moment to kick in, the unfamiliar movements not feeling like ones he once knew so well. But by the time he has reached the second bar he is settled. It’s like coming home. Sinking into a warm bath. Somewhere in the back of his head he hears his grandmother humming, smells her pastries cooking. The chain on his neck is singing it’s delight with each little key he presses. 

It’s only a short thing, hastily cobbled together while mucking about with Howard. Nothing more than a short melody, he repeats a few times, layers a chord progression underneath. In the end though, it just… stops. Mainly because he hadn’t written any more, but also because he can feel the weight of Howard’s gaze on him like a physical caress. 

It doesn’t feel too harsh, at least, and yet, turning his head to catch that gaze Jones feels a bit like he’s suffocating. 

“I haven’t done that in years,” He explains awkwardly. Frankly he’s so worried he’s about to be scolded for his lack of practice that actually asking what Howard thought was the last thing on his mind. It’s intimidating to show anyone your work, but especially so in a discipline you are lacking experience in… oh and the person you’re showing is someone you happen to think is pretty damn talented in their own right. 

From Jones’ perspective Howard was a musical genius. 

Snapped from his staring, Howard shifts forward where he sits, almost looks like he’s going to reach out and touch Jones in comfort but the movement is aborted. Instead, an outstretched hand hangs crudely in the air between them. A declaration of intent that while never followed through on, Jones appreciates all the same. 

“No!” Howard insists. “No that was… Amazing. Brilliant.” 

Flushing, Jones turns his face away. “I mean, I don’t normally make music like that, not for ages, anyway. So it’s a little…” He waves a hand around as if it encapsulates what he’s trying to say. A little disjointed. A little not good. 

_Nothing like what you can do._

“Oh stop it,” Some of the fight that had left Howard during the outpouring of his story earlier begins to return to him. He has enough to roll his eyes at the insecurity coming from Jones’ stiff frame. “You’re putting yourself down again.” 

“Are _you_ lecturing me about putting myself down?” Jones cries, the absurdity of it leaves him snickering. For the moment, his own self-worth in relation to the things he creates is forgotten. 

For a moment, Howard sputters, but then his features harden. Determination mixed with amusement. “Yes. I am. There’s only room for one fractured broken soul in this flat and I have the market cornered.” 

“Oh, so I have to be cheery do I?” Jones is tinkling over the keys as he talks, little improvised melodies. “You want me to fill Vince’s shoes.” 

“You certainly did a swell job of it for a few days.” Jones can’t help himself, he has to take his hand off the piano to cover his mouth as he laughs. Howard frowns at him. “What’s so funny?” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say swell before.” Jones giggles. 

“Well, I have a strong grasp of the English language, sir.” Howard boasts, it only serves to make Jones laugh harder. 

“You’re great.” Jones chuckles, and the sincerity of it catches Howard off guard. 

He’s looking down at his lap sheepishly, pretending that he isn’t blushing as well. Jones can’t pretend not to see it, it’s an adorable shade on him. Howard and his relationship with compliments was also a case of trial and error. Some days he stuck his nose in the air with a smug grin and complemented himself; but then, when someone like Jones or Vince came along with genuine things to say about his character. Howard floundered. 

An olive branch is needed to pull him from his embarrassment. Jones knows just the ticket, he stands and tugs at Howard’s hands until the man has risen to his feet too. With some shuffling and nudging, the pair of them brushing past each other carefully, they swap places. Jones retakes his seat, now next to the piano, and points to the notebook. 

"What?" Howard is glancing between the writing and Jones like he’s been asked to do something terrible. Slight terror, confusion, worry. 

Jones just keeps pointing. "Work your magic." He insists. 

"Me?" Jones nods his head, sheepish smile in place. Howard does another double take between the two. "Why, this is… I won't be able to--" 

"I don't want _proper_ music, Howard,” Jones reassures. To insist on his point, he sits forward and flicks some controls on the keyboard. He sets it to Howard’s preferred instrument, the electric zing of a synthesiser. “I want _your_ music."

At the very least it would be interesting to see what Howard’s hands could do with what Jones’ mind scribbled down. 

"Uh… okay, I suppose."

***

It’s not even nine o’clock, and since his sleep has already been disturbed, Vince finds himself unable to doze off again. 

Annoying really, considering Dan had retreated back into himself after they had hugged to their heart's content. He’d detangled, muttered something indiscernible about sleeping in the living room. The tone he said it in, however, was clear as day. One Vince was more than familiar with in his own life, too. Dan was waiting to be asked to stay--hoping he would be asked to stay--but Vince had been too wrapped up in himself to bother. 

It meant he was now laying here, rethinking the whole interaction, alone and without the distraction of a warm body beside him and conversation to drown out the noise in his brain. He can't stay here like this, he’s going out of his tiny mind. 

Naturally, he gets up. Pulls a discarded t-shirt over his head (one he thinks might be Dan's) and storms out into the flat at large with the intent to do something disastrous. 

It’s only been ten minutes since Dan had left the bedroom before him, and yet when he trails into the living room, sour faced and moody, he finds the man propped on the sofa with his laptop perched on his knee. No lights in the room are on, his face is only illuminated by the stark glow of the screen. Whatever he’s typing it must be enthralling, Dan’s features are pinched in concentration. Fingers flying over the keys. 

“What you writin’?” Vince asks, and Dan startles at the sudden words. 

“Fuck me, Jones!” He yells. Turning a glare so intense on him, that Vince almost believes he’s mad. Except a glare like that is Dan’s default look. “The fuck you creeping around for.”

“Well you do it.” Vince doesn’t intend to sound as petulant as he does. Dan receives his sass with an eye roll and he’s turning back to his computer. Never before has Vince felt so jealous of an inanimate object. “That’s not sleeping.” 

To which, without looking up, Dan replies, “Neither is you standing there judging me.”

“Well someone woke me up so now I _can’t_ sleep.” Somewhere between the bedroom and this conversation, there has been a fire lit underneath his sadness. It’s boiling in his veins. There’s more substance to it now, it isn’t just about his own self worth, his doubt. His insecurity in his relationship with Howard. It’s now about being ignored. 

Howard is ignoring him for Jones, and Dan? Dan’s apparently ignoring him in favour of his laptop. 

Luckily, Vince has ways of getting attention when he wants it. 

Since Dan hasn’t bothered to acknowledge him any further, Vince decides that acting out is the correct path to take. After all, what else can he do? He’s got nothing left but this need to be vindictive, he’s not sure who he is when he isn’t sunshine. If he’s going to shatter apart at the edges like an exploding star then someone might as well be watching when it happens. 

He hovers for a moment, enough that Dan will certainly notice the second he turns on his heel and struts for the kitchen. He does. The typing stops, and a second later, Dan’s voice carries from the living room. 

“You better not be making a coffee!” Dan calls. Vince does not reply, instead he waits, long enough that another exasperated shout comes. “Jones?”

Biting his lip, Vince reaches out and flicks the kettle on--ensuring that Dan will definitely have heard it--and then adopts the most casual stance he could possibly undertake. Drops his back against the counter and folds his arms over his chest in waiting. He’s fairly sure he knows what comes next in this game of cat and mouse and his skin is itching for it. 

He hears a muttered curse of, “For fuck’s sake,” And then he gets what he wants. The heavy shuffling of feet and in the blink of an eye, Dan appears in the kitchen doorway. He’s wearing a frown the likes of which Vince is coming to understand is his tired frown. “You’re not making coffee at 9pm, Jones, that’s bullshit.” 

“Who’s gonna stop me.” It’s a direct result of his foul mood, he knows. He can and will sink this low when he has no other way to direct his feelings. He does it to Howard all the time--several posts on Myspace about his bin man past and some rude graffiti were enough evidence of the lengths he will go to for attention--and if Dan happens to be the closest one for him to wind up because he still feels like shit then too bad. 

Except Dan doesn’t react like Howard does. He doesn’t flounder adorably or stutter or try to be silly. He just glares. The air around them gets a bit thicker. There’s venom spilling into it; Vince can feel it cloying in his lungs and he _likes it_. 

“You won’t sleep.” Dan says. 

“I’m not sleeping anyway.” Vince snaps back. 

Dan steps towards him. Vince doesn’t back down. If anything he rises to it; plants his feet and sticks his chest out. This is exactly what he wanted. There’s something in having someone’s attention--good or bad--fixated solely on you that is more intoxicating than any other substance known to man. Vince thrives on it. He doesn’t want it to stop. With intent, he reaches for the coffee jar with one steady hand and finds his wrist snatched with lightning fast reflexes. One large hand is gripping him so tight it almost hurts; but the man holding him looks nothing but _terrified_ of what Vince is doing. It's a contradiction, but one Vince could get drunk on.

Vince gives enough of a tug to test the strength of Dan's grip, and in response Dan holds on tighter. 

This is how Dan cares; rough. 

The frown on his face has gone from tired to a delicious mix of concern and irritation. “You know for someone who goes on and on about addiction you have no problem keeping this one.” 

It’s the complete wrong--and yet exactly the right--thing to say, it only winds Vince up further. This was doing the trick for his mood, that was for sure. Nothing clears your head more than a good fight. “You just _love_ throwing that in my face, don’t you.” 

Dan, a bit regretful, starts to backpedal as hard as humanly possible. The grip on his wrist loses some of it's intensity. “No I just… I don’t mean it like that, all I mean is that all this caffeine has got to be just as bad for you.” 

And he’s probably right but a lecture is not what Vince had wanted. He wanted a fight, something to bring some energy back into the lethargic shell he felt like ever since his phone call with Jones. There’s still one way left to get it, he thinks. Roughly, perhaps too roughly, Vince yanks his hand back from Dan’s grip and tries to bodily shove past him. Mutters, “Fuck off.” In the process. 

It works, Dan’s worry-cum-fury means he is grabbed by the shoulders as he tries to leave. Vince in turn rounds on his heel and does his best to shove at the broader man's chest. But at the same time, he doesn’t want him to step away, because the second he does he loses this intense interest Dan has in him. He needs it. Thrives on being _noticed._

Dan just keeps giving him what he wants unwittingly, tries to stifle Vince’s flailing limbs by tugging him against his chest and holding him still. The wriggling halts after a second, Vince already drained from his outburst. All he can do is sag into Dan’s arms, pillow his head against his chest and heave deep breaths against the overwhelming sadness that’s creeping back in. 

Anger was therapeutic, but it was fleeting. And in the wake of it, he only feels worse. Vince was no longer just a beachball, but rather one that had been punctured and left to seep his very being into the air around him. 

What was he now? 

And then Dan dips his head; presses his face close and continues to hold him. “Talk to me, Jones… Please.” 

Vince cries. 

***

“Don’t cook.” 

“Why?” 

Because he was using it as an excuse to put distance between them, was what Jones understood of the situation. 

But he couldn't just out and out say that, could he. Howard had spent the last hour perfectly happy while playing around. He had taken Jones' rough attempt at sheet music and turned it into something that he would be proud to call one of his own compositions. It has a bouncy backing track and Howard must read sheet music in a spiral rather than linear because he's managed to twist and mould the notes into their own unique pattern. It's honestly like he's listened to how the ink talks to him and tried his best to emulate what it’s saying. Weird but… amazing.

Except Jones had made the mistake of trying to talk to him while they worked. He diverted from the amusing and light, and instead dared to suggest that Vince must love what Howard can do. 

It's like a curtain drops. Their creativity has had a final bow and is now exiting stage left. 

Which coincidentally was exactly the time Howard had decided they needed food imminently and began trying to bounce ideas of Jones for what they should eat. And he _knew_ Jones knew what he was doing too, the way he hovers, weight half off one foot like he’s ready to take a step toward the kitchen and cook for them anyway. 

Jones can stop him, he knows he can, but he’s still debating how much like himself he wants to be. Too much like himself might scare Howard away--given he was used to the slightly jagged but mostly soft edges of Vince’s character. Jones was, as Naboo had put it in the stockroom the other day, a lot sharper than Vince. 

What he wants to say is, _stop being a coward and fucking talk to me._

What Vince would likely say was, _okay Howard you cook, I’m going to straighten my hair._

Somewhere in the middle is where Jones lands. Comforting but also firm. “I would just rather we do something else.” He says, and he doesn’t have to elaborate _what_ else he’d rather they be doing--Howard clearly knows by the way he appears uncomfortable. Jones adds, “What would you and Vince normally do on a Friday night?” 

It’s a question about Vince, and yet, Howard seems to decide this one is perfectly fine to answer. He even does it with some semblance of grumbled annoyance for his absent flatmate. “ _Vince_ would be out.” He says, and with enough sense of hurt that Jones almost feels bad for him. “That’s where he is most nights these days.” 

“Does it bother you?” 

Howard realises he is not getting out of this without _some_ conversation, and stumbles back into his seat behind the keyboard. The entire time he answers his face pinches in concentration; overthinking each answer he gives like there’s going to be a test about it afterwards. “Why do you think it bothers me?” 

Jones is elated at this. 

It’s amazing how fast he had developed some sense of a backbone since realising Jones was not in fact Vince. He’s still awkward, and a bit naturally submissive in places, but he seems to be getting more comfortable back chatting as time goes on. Some of the worryingly soft edges are hardening into the kind of character Jones wants him to be. Strong. Able to hold his own. Jones likes it, it's a nice colour on him. It’s a little more what he’s used to in his own life. 

“Oh no reason.” Jones sighs, smirks at him. “Just the tone of your voice; all sour like a lemon.” 

“I’m _not_ sour.” 

Jones cocks his head to this side and raises both eyebrows at him. “You’re _a bit_ sour.” 

Howard squints at him, Jones glares back with all defiance he can muster. 

“It doesn’t bother me _that_ much.” Howard mutters after a while. It looks like the confession was painful to have been torn from him. Like it was the exact opposite of a willing declaration. “He’s allowed to have a life outside of me.”

Which raises a few more questions on Jones' side of things; like what the social life of Howard Moon would look like if Vince wasn’t in the picture. What does he do when Vince goes off? What kind of existence does he have? “Do you have a life outside of him?” 

The question riles Howard up terribly. He goes from nought to sixty with his indignation, sputters, frowns. Honestly, Jones is shocked he doesn’t get straight up yelled at. It would be a hell of a leap from his earlier timidity but one Jones might even welcome. But then, with a deep sigh, Howard shakes his head. “Not really, to be honest.” 

And yeah, Jones had been expecting it. Given that Howard had made no mention of other friends, plans, or a general want to leave the flat in the days since he had been here. Honestly, Howard’s world currently seems to revolve around Vince and the worst part? Vince’s revolved around Howard too, he’s just not demonstrating that very well. 

“I used to, sort of, but everything died off after…” Another gesture. It seemed that in the absence of words, they shared their need to be understood through waving hands and shrugged shoulders. Howard does a combination of the two; one hand waving while his opposite shoulder gives a careless shrug. 

“Denmark?” 

“Yeah.” 

Jones thinks a moment, wonders if what he’s about to say might be too on the nose. Too honest or real, but then, he was in a unique position to help these two find each other. This was the kind of thing that did not happen to everyone, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it would be horrible to waste this opportunity. So to hell with what might be proper. He doesn’t hold back. “Howard? Vince thinks _the world_ of you, and I don’t think him spending time out with other people is ever going to be as fun for him as being at home with you is. You need to know that.” 

And where earlier in the day, Howard was quick to doubt him. Still suspicious and edgy, it seems that after spending some time together, the man is better placed to put some faith into him. He’s still awkward though, twists his hands in his lap and looks anywhere but Jones' face. “He said that to you?” 

“He didn’t have to.” Jones gives him his best comforting smile. “I’m an outsider looking in, and it’s pretty easy to see.” 

And this is why they shouldn’t have bothered with the switch. Because, Howard is actually listening. It’s not coming from the person who scares and infuriates, but also excites him. It’s coming from someone who can provide an unbiased opinion. Someone who has nothing to gain from what he says except to see these strangers happy. 

“I’ve learnt a lot about you both since I met him and...” He takes a deep breath, steadies himself for the most serious chat they’ve had so far. “I think you really need to talk to him Howard. _Proper_ talk to him, about what you’re feeling and about what he’s feeling. A lot happened yeah? And neither of you are acknowledging it.” 

Some fight leaks back into Howard’s frame. “I try to acknowledge it!” He says, defiant. But then after a moment of reflection, seems to deflate. “Sometimes. I told you, Vince isn’t good at talking, he just sort of…” 

And Jones knows what he means having experienced it. The struggle his copy had putting voice to the things going on in his head. But there were two people involved in this mess. Two people who could take initiative. “Okay so Vince can’t articulate his thoughts, so what’s your excuse?” 

Howard doesn’t have one. He knows this, he’s blushing and looking away again already. Jones heaves a deep sigh. “Look mate, I’m not here to burst your bubble or nothing. But I am here to help, both of you. I actually happen to quite like Vince, I think he’s a top bloke. And you’re not so bad yourself. I just think it’s a shame is all, the pair of you tossing away all this history because you can’t be honest with each other about what’s bothering you. What’s the worst that could happen, really?” 

“He’d leave me for good.” 

The reply comes quick. Quick enough Jones knows it's a thought that Howard has had every day for god knows how long. Since Denmark? Or is this a fear that has stuck with him for years longer than that. 

Jones can say for almost certain that, that is definitely not going to happen. Would Howard believe him though? 

“Please just talk to him.” 

They fall into silence, Howard and Jones considering each other. A new level of respect on both sides. Howard is looking at Jones with the kind of regard one might have for a trusted confidant, and similarly, Jones feels like Howard has been brave enough in his personal revelations and conversation that he can’t be anything but admiring of him. 

But then, even Jones finds he can’t stand the quiet. With Dan it was normal but for Howard it was just weird. “Anyway, if Vince was _actually_ at home with you, what would you be doing?” 

“Uh…” Howard puffs out a breath, considers his options a moment. “Probably just a takeaway and something on the tv. Hardly a glamorous lifestyle.” 

“Trust me, not glamorous suits me just fine.” Jones rises from his seat, drags a hand through his hair. “Then let me buy us some food, I think I owe it to you. What do you want?” 

“There’s a nice Chinese place we always go to.” 

“Oh!” Jones gasps excitedly. “It’s been ages since I had Chinese food, Dan never lets me get it, always complains about the cost.” 

He doesn’t even realise what he’s said to make Howard look at him like he’s something fascinating until the man asks. “Dan… is that-- You said Vince was with your flatmate, is that Dan?” 

It really hadn’t been his intention to let Howard learn a thing about his own life, not when the difficult topic of _‘hey you also have a double_ ’ was yet to be broached. But, a small part of him feels Howard deserves any answers he wants. “Yeah. Dan’s my flatmate.” 

“What’s Vince trying to do?” Howard asks. There’s sympathy in his gaze before he even knows the details. Jones hates it. It makes him uncomfortable. His skin is prickling. He’s going numb. “If you’re fixing me he’s…?”

“Oh, you know, that’s not even important. Just pointless drama.” He turns to leave. Ironic that he is now trying to use the excuse of food to run from a conversation after just lecturing Howard about it. Before he can dash Howard catches his sleeve. 

“Jones you… I don’t _just_ think you’re Vince’s copy, you know. I’d quite like to know you.” 

It’s too much. Jones tugs his hand back and leaves.

***

They’re on the kitchen floor. 

Dan sat with his back against the cupboards, Vince bundled in his lap. There’s one large arm secured around his body, tucked around his waist and fisting handfuls of the too-large shirt Vince is wearing. The other holds his head delicately against his chest, fingers carding through chopped locks carefully. Dan has his nose tucked into Vince's hair, the ragged breaths he's taking ghosting over his scalp.

They haven’t spoken for a while. Almost too long. Vince has let all his sadness spill wetly into Dan’s shirt until he had nothing left to expel; and the older man hasn’t tried to stop him. He has spent what must be close to half an hour just holding him until the tears stopped and even then didn’t say a word. The silence surrounds them like a warm blanket, comfortable but stifling. The kind of weighty stillness that will eventually suffocate them if it's not broken. 

Vince knows he’s fucked up. 

In their short acquaintance, he had already learnt Jones is not emotional. He was held together. He bottled things up much better than Vince would ever be capable of. He was calm and level and _stable_. Vince, while operating on default joy, still was prone to dramatic outbursts of emotion in the right situations. Tears and tantrums. Ecstatic joy. Horrible gasping sobs over stupid things like his idols career success. 

Breakdowns when everything just got too much--like this. 

So it’s no surprise when into the silence, Dan says, firm and heartfelt. “Something is wrong.” 

Vince says nothing. He doesn’t have to. 

“Something is really, _really_ , wrong, Jones.” He says. Each word smacks Vince around the head like a punch. Dan’s voice is as far from stoic as is possible; rough and wavering. Like any minute he was going to burst into sympathy sobs. Vince had fucked up. “I don’t know how to fix this, I don’t… Please talk to me. _Please_.” Vince doesn’t know where to start. He tilts his head up enough to peer at Dan, the man staring down at him with enough sincere heartbreak he has to close his eyes against it. Dan dips his head enough to ghost his lips against Vince's forehead; whispering more pleas against his skin. “Tell me how to help you.”

“I--” And it’s not even that Vince doesn’t want to explain he’s just… it had gone so horribly last time and it would surely only hurt Dan to know the truth? And now he’s so drained and emotional none of it would make sense anyway so he just. He gapes wordlessly at him. 

He does one worse than that actually, he tries to run. Vince has never really been a runner, that was Howard’s role in their duo, but it worked for him when he wanted to avoid talking so maybe it would work for Vince now too. He scrambles to his feet and darts from the room, intending to shut himself back in the bedroom.

Dan is quick to follow. He calls his name-- twice. “Jones? Jones, wait!” But when that tactic get no response he apparently does what Dan does best, he hits below the belt in order to provoke a reaction. _Any_ reaction. “Christian, will you fucking listen to me.” 

Vince halts in his tracks. Mainly because he’s not entirely sure what he’s just heard. It takes a second, his brain working at half capacity thanks to the day he’s had. But it eventually clicks on. Dan had said he knew Jones’ real name. Had just called him by said name out of frustration, _once again_ using private and potentially hurtful information against him in a moment of heated discussion. 

Vince isn’t sure how to take that, he turns on his heel to where Dan is watching him--a little afraid, at least aware he has done something wrong--hovering like a child waiting to be scolded, and yet, Vince can’t find it in himself to do anything but blink at him. Honestly, the reaction Jones... Christian Jones... would have right now, it's not this dumb staring that Vince is employing. 

This more than anything must be the straw that breaks the camel's back. Because for obvious reasons, his reaction is not the one Dan expected. Vince sees the math happening behind those squinted eyes. He sees the memory of Vince’s ‘false’ confession in the bedroom earlier replay like a film. Sees the odd behaviour adding up. The non-reaction to a name that Jones tries _very hard_ to conceal from the world. 

The conclusion dawns on his face and Vince watches it happen in real time; powerless to stop it. 

He’s being stared at differently. Observed from head to toe like he is the strangest creature the man has ever come into contact with and then Dan asks. “So… who _are_ you then?” Vince’s blood turns to ice. “Because you’re definitely not Jones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOH I love a cliff-hanger! Poor Vince, unfortunately, he's just not doing too well in the Barley universe... And Jones, well, he seems to be having a much better time, doesn't he? Next chapter as soon as possible!


	10. You committed, I'm your crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince's Saturday with a now aware Dan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Real life happened and so there was another break for this chapter, I can only apologise and hope this (sort of) makes up for the gap. Though, hang onto your hats lads, it's gonna be a ride.

Vince's Saturday does not get off to a good start.

And considering how the rest of his Friday night had gone, it should really come as no great surprise. Even Vince Noir’s tendency for supernatural good luck could not have promised him a better start to a day like this one. Not after suffering through the veritable car crash of the night before. 

_“Because you’re definitely not Jones.”_

In many ways, asking him who he really was had been a moot point. Dan hadn’t wanted an answer. No, what he had wanted was nothing more than confirmation that he was correct. That he’d gotten in Vince’s silence. In his heavy, suffocating, silence that spoke more words than could possibly exist in Vince’s limited vocabulary. 

Without a breath of a noise, or a twitch of movement, Dan had looked him from head to toe in that moment as if he were something wholly disgusting. 

“Do you know what? I actually couldn’t care less.” He’d hissed, pushing past him bodily and with such force that Vince had stumbled into the wall beside him and been forced to catch himself lest he had gone crashing to the floor. 

The cruelty doesn’t put him off though, like a pathetic little lamb, Vince had found his feet quick enough to trail after the disgruntled man with gentle calls of, “Dan wait--” 

But even with a limp Dan’s strides were long enough to put him ahead of Vince; he found the bedroom door quite literally slammed in his face. It was a few centimeters away from breaking his nose, the force of which it swung closed. Regardless, he didn't know what else to do but sag against it; his forehead pressed to the cold wood and more whispered pleas falling from his mouth. 

“Dan, I can explain…” 

Until then, Vince had not been aware Jones’ bedroom door had a lock. But the sound of it clicking shut smacks him upside the head. It’s unmissable. Loud like a pendulum swinging into a bell and leaves his ears ringing afterwards. 

Really, of all the ways Vince had imagined Dan reacting to the news, this was surely one of the better options. His features were still intact, there had been no (at least no significant) violence involved. Dan in himself hadn’t seemed anything more than furious…

But Vince had still been pinned under a sickly feeling of worry. 

Dan was delicate at the best of times, as Vince understands it the man made a permanent home at the edge of an abyss--nothing more than a swift breeze needed to carry him over--and one wrong move could compromise him in more ways than one. There was no possible way to predict what could be going on behind the closed door of a bedroom. A physical barrier keeping Vince from fulfilling the one promise he had made to Jones that night when they’d swapped places. 

_“I’ll look after him.”_

Vince can’t look after anyone if he can’t _see_ them. And suddenly he wants to be sick. Dan can do and say what he likes to Vince about this scenario--he can almost guarantee he will have heard worse in his life from far less savoury characters--and he would take it as his penance. But shutting him out is about the worst punishment he could have chosen for someone like Vince. 

An imagination like Vince’s? It was sometimes it’s own worst enemy. 

Which is exactly how he ends up, early on Saturday morning, waking up on the floor beside the bedroom door. 

It may seem incredibly juvenile to some but he hadn’t wanted to be more than an arms length away from the locked door in case he missed it swinging open again. Initially he had convinced himself it was all for Dan’s sake; that if he sat with his knees tucked to his chest and his back against the wood, then he would hear if anything went on in there. 

Vince has zero confidence in his ability to break a door down but by God would he try if that fragile idiot did something stupid. 

However, that excuse only lasted an hour or two, at which point the continued silence was comfort enough that Dan was almost certainly not doing anything of concern. Most likely he was simply pulling one of the worlds largest tantrums complete with the silent treatment. Yet, Vince did not move. 

Because the truth of the matter was that Vince had never really dealt with rejection that well. And if sitting by the door in the hopes of feeling like he was still a little bit connected to Dan, and their plight, was childish, that’s because the voice in Vince’s head convincing him to do it was approximately six years old and still raw from being sent away from the jungle. 

Or perhaps it was younger, abandoned there in the first place. 

You never know, it could even be in it’s twenties, being left behind for a prominent acting career in Denmark. 

Point being, while the sofa would have been a much more comfortable place for Vince to fall asleep. Being absconded to a whole other room was a bit too much like accepting Dan’s rejection of him. Which while an understandable development in this relationship, was akin wading into the ocean and never resurfacing. He’d choke on his own sadness before morning came if he left his guard position by the door. 

Naturally, trying to sleep with his head dropped forward onto his knees was not the most comfortable of positions (he wasn't quite at the point of desperation that would allow him to literally lay on the carpet like a scolded puppy). Not only that, but any exhaustion he had felt before Dan’s return home had been hastily scrubbed from his being and instead replaced with the kind of tired-awareness that comes with anxiety. The feeling of dread meaning he was far too worn-out to actually sleep, a paradox, but a reality for him. 

So Vince doesn’t sleep much. 

Even if he was lucky enough to drift off a little, there would inevitably be a noise--a scuffle, the sound of someone huffing a sigh or rolling over in the sheets--and Vince would snap his head up with misguided hope that Dan was going to reappear on the scene. 

He hadn’t. 

Hours ticked over. Evening fell to night. Morning started to rear it’s peaceful head. Dan remained secluded in his fortress of sulk with Vince perched like a rather pathetic looking (and feeling) gargoyle outside. His back aches, his head is throbbing. Truthfully, his arse has gone a little numb sitting on the floor. His eyes itch, raw from the lack of sleep, and his mouth feels dry. Each second that marches by increases the sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach; the horrifying alarm that has not eased in his time waiting. 

And if he had been struggling with his guilt last night, then he was _ruined_ this morning.

Deciding (more like being forced) to give Dan space to process what was going on before he dove in and tried to explain was a good choice right up until the point that he was left alone for _way too long_ with his own failings.

It is barely 6am. Dan had been locked in that bedroom for nearly _ten hours_ with no movement. Normally wouldn't be that big a deal, Vince can sleep longer than that on a good day, but nothing about this situation was normal. Dan was not like Howard. He was not accustomed to the slightly bizarre. He was not capable of springing back from a revelation like this with the knowledge that far stranger things have gone on. Dan Ashcroft was a soul full of cracks and splinters, who was one wrong pressure point away from shattering apart completely and _Vince_ had potentially already swung hard for one of his weak spots. 

The silence on the other side of the door for all this time had done nothing but convince Vince that Dan wasn’t _acting_ on anything. Who knows what he’s _thinking_. 

Vince has started to shiver in the chill that the morning air brings to Jones’ drafty home. There hadn't been a chance to dress before Dan had locked him out, he was still left in nothing more than pants and one of the Northern man’s large t-shirts. Briefly he considered moving to fetch himself the throw he knows is on the back of the sofa, but even that small separation from the bedroom feels like an abandoning of his role. 

So he stays exactly where he is. Still. 

As well as his clothes, his phone is also in the bedroom. Which means he’s not even got the chance to call for backup in the form of Jones. Though, what would help from Jones look like now? If the other man came running would Howard follow behind obediently like he might have with Vince once upon a time? It’s only been a day since Howard found out about Jones’ identity, was that enough time for the copy to have trained him into compliance as he appears to have with Dan. 

Which by far is one of the worst wonderings he has been left with all night. 

Where is his place going to be when all of this is over? Certainly not here, Dan is much more likely to welcome back his not so long lost housemate than he is to want to continue to associate with Vince--who in Dan’s opinion is a little bit of a freak of nature--and Howard? Well, Vince has already rinsed himself with fears that Jones and his lack of baggage was going to be a preferable option for his friend. 

What a bastard. 

And Vince knows that this fury is completely unreasonable. Jones, who by all accounts has done nothing but try to help Vince since this began, does not deserve the anger Vince is currently directing at him. But without someone to blame Vince has no hope of pulling himself from this pit of despair. He would fester, poison himself from the inside out with negativity he isn't used to carrying. It's already been a lot, the weight of a serious world on his shoulders, but when Vince's mind has nothing to occupy it but the carousel of his insecurity then by rights it is going to go _wild._

It will spin and spin and spin and Vince won't know how to make it stop. 

In among the sounds of his sadness, there's an unmistakable click of a lock becoming _un_ locked. 

Vince perks up, and waits. He expects that perhaps Dan is going to come out of the room, maybe dash to the bathroom and lock himself in there instead. Or enter the hallway and begin yelling. Well, yelling might be a strong term, Dan is more the silently steaming type rather than loud exclamations. But what he expects is some expression of emotion. At this point anything would do. Something for Vince to engage in. 

But there’s nothing. Other than the sound of the lock, there’s no noise whatsoever and Vince sits there for ten minutes wondering if it was supposed to be an invitation, or if he just imagined it; his own mind impressing on reality and giving him something to cling onto. Eventually he has to wobble to his feet, and even then he regards the door like it's going to bit him. Careful fingers reaches out to touch at the handle with caution, weighing up his options, and then, he thinks, to hell with it. He twists the doorknob and to his pleasant, but terrified, surprise, the door swings open. 

Dan is awake, and by the looks of it has been most of the night too. He hasn't bothered to change a single item of clothing from the night before, and the sheets haven't been disturbed past the impression Dan leaves where he lays on-top of them. For all intents and purposes it looks as if he had simply stormed off and dropped into place--not moved since. The air between them is thick with potential, but Vince isn’t sure if it’s potential hope or potential disaster. Both.

Vince hovers in the doorway to the room and is not even spared a glance for his effort. At least he can be sure that Dan’s unlocking of the door was an intentional motion, the way he lays stiffly speaks to his expectation of Vince’s presence, but he can’t help but feel like he is still unwelcome in this space of the bedroom. 

He takes one step into the room and Dan’s eyes flick to him with such intense, ice-cold, hatred, that Vince almost turns on his heel and runs straight from the room. The only thing that stops him is the small flash of relief. It’s only there a moment, but it’s long enough to convince him of Dan’s equal vulnerability in this situation. Vince wasn’t the only one suffering via his displacement, Dan had just learnt that all the progress and potential positive steps he’d been making were with a complete stranger, and not the best friend he’d wanted to make them with.

Still, he makes no further move into the room. Remains by the door, poised to dart out of it if he needed to. Because as vulnerable as Dan is, Vince cannot afford to let himself forget that this man is far more accustomed to fighting his own battles than Howard is. The last thing Vince wants is to land himself on the wrong side of Ashcroft. 

“How are you feeling?” Vince finally asks when the lack of conversation begins to stifle him. From where he stands he can see how Dan's features twist in a mixture of annoyance and confusion. 

He isn't looking in Vince's direction, not since that initial glare for him daring to enter the space, he had gone back to staring at the ceiling. “Does it really matter?” He snaps. 

Which makes Vince sad and angry in equal measure. “Of course it matters.”   
  
“Why?” Fury is still radiating through the room with each of Dan's spat words, but it bothers Vince less the longer it goes on. He’s becoming accustomed to it. Building resistance with continued exposure; perhaps that is how Jones had learnt to cope. “You hold no loyalty to me, nor how I _feel_ why should it matter?” 

He’s right, but still, Vince barely needs a moment to think about his answer. “Having loyalty to someone and being kind aren’t the same thing,” 

Brown eyes find him once more, look at him for so long Vince starts to fidget. They’re just observing one another. Well, Dan is observing him, Vince finds that if he tries to make eye contact his body forces him away. Like it knows it will lose that battle. He feels a lot like how a weak foal must feel when in the eyeline of a predator. Exposed. Already dead. 

Because it isn't all negative, the things he can see in Dan's eyes. There isn't just the hurt and betrayal, there's curiosity. Hope. Something like admiration. Granted it's difficult to pick out, because every little flash of something _good_ is being smothered almost at will by the bad things. The sharp sting of Dan's instant reactions. Vince knows he has no right to say a thing in the face of it. 

Because normally Vince would have no problem just starting a new conversation in order to detract from the serious nature of this one. With anyone else--with Howard--deflection was a legitimate tactic. He can make conversation happen even with the most awkward of recipients--there's a reason he'd managed to bully Howard into maintaining a friendship with him for all these years. But Dan doesn't make him feel anything close to chatty. Dan makes him feel intimidated. Worried. Anxious. Dan inspires this strange sense of submissiveness in him that means he ducks his head and stares at the floor like a naughty school boy. 

Not only that but in some ways he thinks it’s important for Dan to be the one to take that step. No matter what angle Vince choses to look at this from, Dan was the victim to his and Jones’ games, and he has earned the right to be the driving force behind their conversation. 

So Vince plays his role, and he waits. Silently. Turning in on himself, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, projecting himself as little of a threat as he possibly can. He isn’t sure how long they’re there before Dan’s speaking into the air-- he is staring at the ceiling still. 

"You'd don't carry ID." He says, and for a moment, that leaves Vince so confused that he almost has to ask what Dan means. Until the man in the bed produces Vince's wallet, and he darts his eyes over to his abandoned clothes from the night before, clearly rifled through. 

"You went through my things?" He shouldn't sound as hurt by this action as he is, he knows he has _no right_ , and yet it’s there. An ugly feeling of betrayal low in his chest. 

"Trying to figure out who you are." There's no hint of guilt to Dan's tone, he shrugs off Vince’s panic like it's an old coat he's not really that fond of. Carelessly. "But like I said; you don't carry ID."

Strange to Dan but reasonable to Vince. He has no need. He doesn't drive, and he's never left the country--not properly anyway, not in a way that would require him to use a passport. Not like he ever gets asked for it either, Vince lives in a world where people forget rules have to apply to him so he has never once been asked for identification even when he probably should have been. Where Vince exists, that's just how it goes. 

“You could have just _asked_.” Vince says, a sprinkle of sass finding it’s way into his voice. He is already growing tired with Dan’s tantrum, and briefly spares a thought for any time Howard has had to deal with him in a similar mood. 

Though, the difference between Vince and Dan’s mood swings was what they hoped to achieve with them. The wish to be pulled out of the other side. Vince is known for a strop or two, but when he falls into a foul mood he is almost certainly doing it because of a perceived lack of attention. Or perhaps feeling neglected. Point being, when Vince finds himself kicking out at the world around him, he’s doing it with the knowledge he will soon have a pair of warm brown eyes and a gentle smile to help him back to himself. He _wants_ to be coaxed out the other side. 

Dan doesn’t want that. He wants to be left alone to his suffering and god help anyone who thinks they stand a chance at offering assistance while he pities himself. 

God help Vince. 

The glare he receives for daring to open his mouth and argue back is weighty enough that it may as well have been a physical slap. Vince shuffles his feet back an inch or two, ready to beat a retreat should this turn nasty. Which, as Dan continues talking, it begins to. 

“Plenty of interesting things in here though,” Dan goes on, and Vince is forced to watch in silent horror as Dan pulls various things out of his wallet to show him. Well, _one_ thing. The photo of himself and Howard at the zoo… the same one he had shown Jones that very first night. 

Dan holds up the photograph like one might present evidence in a court, making sure Vince can see it. His face is set in fury but Vince can see the hand holding the photograph is trembling ever so slightly. Vince doesn’t blame him, everyone seemingly reacts differently to the news that there’s another person with their face in the world. Vince with unbridled curiosity and Jones with the ferocity of a cornered animal. Apparently, Dan’s reaction is that of fear. Fear and confusion and the need to understand but being inherently terrified of what he’s about to be told. 

Vince can’t think of a single thing to say, which is fine, because Dan seems to not want to hear it. 

“So, it seems there’s more to this than I originally thought, and I’m not sure how much I actually want to know about you… _whatever_ you are.” And that _hurts_. It's a sharp twist right in his heart, but Vince is still struck dumb. He’s shaking. His eyes sting. God they’d really fucked up going through with this; why had he ever considered playing with people's lives like this to be a good idea? “I think I’d really just prefer you left. If I’m honest.” 

It’s not even like he’s shouting. Vince thinks he’d prefer it if he was, because Dan was grumpy and harsh and sometimes a bit loud in his exclamations, but never cruel. This was cruel. Dan was grimacing at him like he was something disgusting, and then he proceeds to toss the wallet and the photo at his feet in quick succession. 

The worst part? Vince can’t even blame him for it, because Dan is entitled to this behaviour. He’s hurt and scared and confused; and Vince does nothing but scoop the items from the floor with a pathetic sniffle and hurries from the room before he loses what little dignity he has left. 

Fuck. 

***

Vince doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he hears a throat being cleared in his vicinity and he shoots awake, he realises he must have. 

Everything takes a moment to refocus, his eyes aching from more rest being robbed from him, his cheeks are raw. And he remembers everything. All the things Dan had said, the things he _hadn’t_ said but had clearly been thinking. He remembers not being able to call Jones and tell him what happened for fear of the retribution, of being scolded for his stupidity. And it’s not like Howard was talking to him either so what option did he have but to collapse back on the sofa at 6am and cry himself into a nap. 

Vince had been vulnerable, and he had no one to turn to.

Now, as he startles awake, he finds Dan hovering uncertainly by the sofa. His features painted in a strange mixture of remorse and fear. His body is an odd shape in the room, awkward and unsure. But he doesn’t say a thing, Vince is left staring up at him, wondering where all the fight from this morning has gone. It had seemed so intense that Vince genuinely considered vacating the flat rather than just the bedroom; and now it was like a whole other person had come to confront him. 

And only then does it occur to him that Dan’s bark will _always_ be worse than his bite. 

So, Vince sighs gently and scoots over on the sofa. A silent invitation that, despite there being a whole other couch for him to sit at, Dan looks relieved at being given the option. The larger man settles into the space beside Vince like a missing piece. Him being a stranger apparently does not bother Dan as much as his need for physical comfort does. 

“You’re not family.” Dan says, mumbles it softly into the silent air between them. “He doesn’t have any family.” 

Vince resists the urge to point out that family gets lost from each other all the time, there’s no reason to assume that some of Jones’ couldn’t appear out of the woodwork some years later--because the reality is, he doesn’t actually know what Jones’ story is, and Dan does. If Dan says Jones can’t possibly have family, then Vince will believe him and keep his lips firmly sealed. 

“No. I’m not family.” He agrees, voice harsh and rough when he speaks. He can’t actually bring himself to turn his head to the side and look at Dan, much too soft and defeated to bother. He’s terrified of seeing that expression again, the utter disgust. Like he was something freakish and unnatural, dangerous. Something Dan had stepped in on the street and couldn’t wait to rid himself of. 

Coupled with the roller coaster of his own self-worth these past few days and Vince hasn't felt this worthless in years. 

Not that he has time to be worrying about that, Dan is still sounding out his confusion, trying his best to make sense of Vince as a person through muttered ideas. “At first I thought maybe you were just _him_ but… I don’t know, had been leading a double life or something.” Something about the naivety of that assumption makes Vince snicker gently. Dan manages to huff a small noise of amusement too. “You look _so much_ like him.” 

“I had noticed.” Vince says, Dan smirks over at him. 

“Sound like him too.” 

Vince wants to ask exactly where Dan is going with this thought process. But if nothing else, not having to be the one doing most of the talking was rather helpful. It was giving the larger man a chance to express himself. As much as a man like Dan was capable of expressing himself, that is, meaning Dan was about as successful voicing what was going on in his head as most young children. The thoughts were there, but the words were not. 

Thankfully for them both, Vince was getting a good handle on Dan’s subtext. “I know you didn’t mean to be an arsehole in the bedroom, Dan, don’t put yourself out trying to apologise to me.” 

Dan’s eyes sparkle with something like respect. They lapse into silence again. The tension in the room eases; as they sit, shoulder to shoulder, it even begins to feel a little bit comfortable. A strange kind of comfortable, but comfortable nonetheless. 

“Is he safe?” 

For the first time since the bedroom, Vince turns his head enough to catch Dan’s gaze. He’s almost floored by the misty concern there. “What?” 

“Jones,” Dan breathes the name like he’s afraid of accidentally summoning him. Understandable, Vince thinks his copy would not stand for this kind of disrespectful from Dan behaviour the way Vince is currently putting up with it. “Is he safe?” 

His heart aches. “Yeah… Yeah he’s safe.” 

“Good.”

And they’re back to the awkward. Vince rubs at his face, a combination of trying to wake himself up and be certain the tears from earlier are gone. Despite being fairly sure most of his dignity had been left behind on the kitchen floor last night, crying in front of Dan _again_ was not a desirable outcome of this morning meeting. Dan just continues to watch him; it's less predatory this look. More, daresay, motherly. Like he is assessing the best way to properly take care of someone that desperately needs his help. 

“Are _you_ okay?” 

This catches Vince’s attention, he frowns over at Dan, and the man frowns right back like he doesn’t know why he is being scrutinized. “What happened to _‘Why does it matter if you have no loyalty to me?’_ ” Vince demands. 

Dan suddenly looks sheepish. He clears his throat, plucks at the fabric of his jeans anxiously. “Someone pointed out you don’t have to have loyalty to be kind.” 

Vince feels himself welling up again. Fuck Dan Ashcroft and his ability to hurt him emotionally like this. And his reaction, rather than to simply answer him, is to turn and deliver a weak smack to Dan’s arm. “You’re doing it again.” He accuses.

Dan blinks at him, confused, up until their conversation from last night permeates his memory and gives way to a soft smile. “Loveable teddy bear?”

“Emotionally stunted idiot.” Vince replies, which, if Dan takes any offence to, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he inches himself a little closer to brush their shoulders together with each breath of gentle laughter they share. The little bit of contact is enough. 

“I’m not okay.” Vince says. 

Then, without any more preamble, he collapses into Dan’s side. A little unsure what to do, Dan makes no move to stop him. He stills awkwardly. Eventually, Dan relaxes enough into the outburst that he throws his arm around Vince's body and simply lets him cry. 

Vince only cries harder at the willingness with which Dan holds him. 

***

He must have dosed off. The sofa beneath his feels strange, the air smells different. 

Distantly, he can hear one of Howard's jazz tapes playing but rather than irritating him, it is frankly the best sound he could ever have heard. It's more beautiful than birdsong. It's heavenly. He thinks he can hear the man himself, huffing sighs of thought like he does when he's trying his best to express an idea formed in that brilliantly loopy brain of his. Vince would bet he's writing, or working on a new song. In his minds eye, he pictures Howard in the armchair adjacent from him with a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. Tiny eyes pinched in thought and his moustache twitching as he sounds out words to solve his thoughtful problem. 

For a moment. He is home. 

His excitement for seeing his displaced flatmate overtakes him enough that he forgets the other context clues. The stink of recently extinguished cigarettes and the aftershave he _knows_ does not belong to Howard. The clatter of fingers on a keyboard. 

When he opens his eyes to Jones' flat, his stomach sinks into his shoes because for a moment he could have sworn--

"Are you awake?" 

_Dan._

Vince had cried himself to sleep on Dan's shoulder. Like an utter _idiot._ God what the man must think of him. "I-- Yes. Sorry." 

Dan doesn't say it verbally, but the tiny little smile he gives from the corner of his eyes is all the reassurance Vince needs that he wasn't as put off by the behaviour as one might assume he would be. It reminds Vince that Dan has spent eight years living with Jones, and their chosen form of communication was physical contact. 

The reassurance doesn't stop him from flushing as he presses himself away from Dan's body and into a properly seated position. Really, being a bit tired was not unusual, given the lack of sleep from the night before combined with his extensive emotional outpouring of the past few days. At home, it wasn't unheard of him to sleep through a whole day after a particularly explosive meltdown. 

Naboo tells him he slept for two days after Howard left for Denmark, though Vince doesn’t like to acknowledge that as anything more than a simple overdoing it with his booze during the electro circus night. 

This time, he already feels it in his bones as he shifts. The deep exhaustion of a not yet recharged emotional battery. There’s a cavern in his chest where his sunshine usually goes that isn’t quite as empty as it was an hour ago, but it was nowhere near full either. As he blinks himself into awareness, the Jones themed clock opposite him is informing him that it’s nearing 10am. 

No sooner than he stretches his limbs is Dan snapping the case of his laptop closed, doing nothing more than drawing Vince's attention to what he had been doing and therefore, giving him the perfect excuse to not talk about his exhaustion. 

"You write a lot." Vince says tiredly. Rubbing at his eyes in a childish attempt to rid himself of his tiredness. 

"I'm a writer." 

"No but this is different." Vince knows the difference between someone doing something because they have to, and someone doing something because they want to. The minute but noticeable difference between finding joy in a task and being horribly reluctant to complete it. A lot of his own existence existed on this fine line; Vince loved the shop but that meant he _had_ to do stock-taking sometimes. He loved Howard but sometimes, it was out of sheer reluctance. And whatever Dan was doing was certainly the latter of the two options. If not just because no one would willingly spend that long staring at a screen unless they were putting something _good_ down on paper. "What do you write?" 

A pause, Dan's shifty gaze darts across Vince's face before he says, "Nothing." 

Rolling his eyes, Vince presses himself into a more seated position. He mutters something about showering and dressing through a heavy yawn, catches Dan looking at him strangely. 

"What?" He asks, almost follows it up with the jokey _‘have I got shit on my face?’_ but finds that this look has sucked all humour from the room. It’s the same kind of low level heat that almost had Vince swooning in those first few days. 

Dangerous, a look like that. 

"Sorry I just…” Dan clears his throat; it does nothing to dissuade the dreamy quality to his voice. “I forget you're this whole other person. That you've just been here, using our shower and wearing our clothes."

Vince is about to correct him in the use of the word _our_ until Dan reaches out and plucks at the large shirt still hanging off his frame. Seems he has actually been wearing both of their clothes. All at once a deep blush covers his features and he's not entirely sure why. Surely of everything that had gone on these past few days, wearing Dan's clothes was about the most innocent of it all. He knew what this man's hands felt like on his skin. He knew how he _kissed._ A shirt should be nothing, but it doesn't feel like nothing.

Not with the way Dan's eyebrow arches in sinful amusement. 

"I didn't look before I picked it up." Vince mutters ashamedly, attempts to explain himself away. "Not that you keep your wardrobe space organised enough for me to tell the difference. How do you know whose clothes is whose?" 

Dan snorts his amusement. “Well for a start I don't fit into Jones' clothes, have you seen him?" To illustrate his point Dan waves a hand up and down Vince's frame. "The pair of you are built like pencils, I'm a real human. Not like a doll in a funny outfit."

The familiarity of it strikes him dumb. Howard had said something like that to him once. _You're like a puppet in an outfit_ , which, at the time, Vince had not taken much affection from. He takes affection from Dan though, the way he smirks around his words and casts his eyes away at the mention of Jones. And a lot of things start to make sense to him, not only where Dan and Jones are concerned, but also, in the things he is perhaps not taking notice of in his own relationship. In how he may have just been a little bit blind to the way Howard chooses to communicate with him. 

If there was one thing this venture with Dan had taught Vince? What people say and do does not matter... it's the way in which that message is delivered that matters. 

And if Howard doesn't touch him, but rather, chooses to smirk softly and refer to him as a puppet in a funny outfit... well, who was he to tell him what his intention was with those words. 

_God, he's been such an idiot._

"Why don't you tell him, Dan?" He chokes out, weighed down as he is by his personal realisations. Finds that in place of being able to ask his own northern freak, he has to ask Dan for his answers. When Dan just looks at him, confused, Vince elaborates. "How much you need him?" 

There's no reply, Dan is floundering. So is Vince. He leaves for a shower before he can examine any of this any further. 

***

It doesn’t surprise Vince at all that once he has returned from showering some wakefulness into his body, Dan makes his own escape into the bathroom. The man had demonstrated a lot in the short few days of their existence together but the most prominent was his ability to run from a topic that made him uncomfortable.

Like why he's spent this long dancing around his obvious infatuation for Jones. 

While he's gone, Vince misbehaves. 

He's not exactly tech savvy. They have a computer at home, one he and Howard share, but to be honest, the other man uses it more than Vince does. Vince pretty much only uses it to embarrass Howard on his MySpace account and to occasionally search up cool new trends. But other than that? He's pretty old school. He likes to keep his reading to a magazine and his socialising to face to face down the pub with his mates. 

But he knows how to turn one on. And he knows that a man like Dan Ashcroft likely isn't going to keep his files password protected lest he forget it while drunk (or sober) and forever lose access. 

So while Dan showers, Vince slides himself across the sofa to where the closed laptop sits innocently on a cushion beside him. He looks over his shoulder once, twice, and then decides that it's definitely worth the risk. He flicks the lid up and hits the power button, watches as the screen jumps to life. The screen saver is a horrific artwork that declares the laptop most certainly is on loan from Dan's terrible job. And thankfully, messy the man may be, he's not completely disorganised. There's files everywhere but they're at least labelled. 

Vince skips over _'work shit'_ and chooses not to look any further at what _'not work but shit'_ might be and instead lands his cursor on the file simply labelled _'Ashcroft'_. 

Because what else would someone like Dan label a file where he kept things he wanted no one else to look at? He'd of course name it after the one thing he thinks no one is really going to _want_ to look at. The one thing he thinks is wholly uninteresting and undeserving of attention. Himself. 

Opening the folder finds Vince gasping with surprise. Not because he'd found what he was looking for, no, on some level, Vince had good instincts about these things. Good instincts or just incredibly good luck. Either way, finding Dan's writing isn't what shocks him, what shocks him is the sheer _amount_ of it. While the rest of Dan's computer was a little haphazard in terms of document names and accessibility. This folder was organised within an inch of its life. There were dates assigned to each thumbnail, and then, in brackets beside the date, was what Vince assumed were titles. 

Some of them were cut off, the pixels on the screen chopping them in half as it tried to squash all the files together into one manageable space but some, some were short enough to read. 

Like _16/08/05 - Scars_ or _02/12/07 - Houston._

And if Vince was at all unsure about what these pieces were about, ranging from a few hundred words to pages upon pages of creative ramblings... then all he needed to do was open one of the entries and it became clear. 

_Goodbye is the saddest word I know. The saddest word you know is my name._

Dan's been chronicling his life since he moved in with Jones. 

At least, that's what he can gather. 

Scrolling back to the first entry finds a short poem titled _'New Beginnings'_ and Vince's heart aches. 

In the deep recesses of his mind he knows he should not look at this any more. Whatever Dan is choosing to put down in words is clearly private and for his eyes only but Vince cannot stop once he's started. He flicks through some of the shorter ones quickly, reads titles and opens the ones that interest him. everything from innocently named _Pancakes_ to the darker insinuation of _Bloodstain._ Each new writing adding a new question to his list. A new reason to respect Dan as an author. His prose is incredible. Not that Vince's bar for such things is very high, he'd regularly been subjected to Howard's writing in his youth and though he'd never say his friend was terrible it did lack a certain… Imagination. Dan however? 

It's _beautiful_. 

Vince isn't sure if it's because he's already off kilter emotionally or if it really is _that good_ but as he takes his time skimming through different pieces (and he does have to skim carefully, there are words he doesn't understand) he finds himself getting choked up. 

_The soul of beautiful destruction. It calls to them, loudly, erupting, corrupting. Fuck love. Fuck Hope. Fuck Happiness. Living like this is cleanliness. Disinfect the emotions with potions and concoctions._

And alright maybe Vince hasn’t got the kind of mind that lets him read something someone has written and perfectly extrapolate meaning from it but if he had to try? 

Dan has been trying to right himself for years. Unsuccessfully. But trying. He’s tired and frustrated not only by the world around him but by the place he has found in it, and this prose, this poetry, whatever form his expression takes in this eclectic collection of writing, it's for all intents and purposes Dan's journal. His way of trying to formulate his thoughts and feelings into an understandable clump. 

He writes himself like a fictional character, perhaps to better distance himself from his own thoughts and feelings. But it's him. 

It’s him and _Jones_. 

_In Paris there is a hotel room where our hearts lay shredded amongst the sheets and we never went back for them because then it would be real. In Rome we abandoned our good conscience and spent most of our days unconscious. In Berlin there is a wall we could not scale and scars of a war we fought all by ourselves._

Does Jones know this exists? 

It’s about this point that Dan walks straight into the room. His face completing a gymnastics routine of horror upon realising what Vince is currently reading. “What are you doing?” He’s across the room in the blink of an eye and snapping the lid shut. "You can't just go through people's shit."

Vince sputters his indignation. "You went through mine!”

"That's different."

"How's it different?"

"Because you're an imposter in my life!" Dan snaps, and Vince would have stumbled back had he not been sitting. They had been doing so well to act relatively normal since that initial outburst in the bedroom that Vince had stupidly forgotten Dan could be like this. Sharp. Mean. Using insults and jibes to keep people at arm's length when he was feeling vulnerable. Of course he was going to start this now, upon finding Vince looking through his most personal files. 

“I was just-” 

“Just being fucking nosey.” Dan snaps. And he reverts to his second best tactic for making Vince leave him alone. He leaves the room before the argument can continue. 

***

It takes less than an hour for Dan to reappear. 

Vince is sat by the window instead of on the sofa, twirling his phone in his hand and debating if calling Jones at half ten in the morning on a Saturday is something that would upset the other man. He reasons likely not, Jones appears to have an even worse sleeping pattern than either Vince or Howard and so logically should be wide awake. But he’s interrupted with Dan’s entrance. 

He’s out and out pretending Vince doesn’t exist by the look of it. Purposefully doesn’t look in his direction as he strides across the room and fishes his cigarettes from down the side of the sofa. The silence is weighty, and it’s at this point Vince decides he’s going to have to stop cowering in the face of Dan's moods. When he was Jones he’d had no problem standing up to this man, why should that change now? 

So he clears his throat, watches how Dan’s gaze flicks to him briefly while he lights his cigarette, but then he continues to ignore him. 

Vince does what he does best in the face of silence, he talks. 

“You still haven’t even asked me my name.” He says, the accusation clear. For what it’s worth Dan’s shoulders hunch just enough that Vince is sure he’s getting to him already. “Pretty bloody rude if you ask me.” Silently he smokes, and Vince gets feisty. “I’ve spent days here, away from my life in order to help the pair of you and this is what I’m getting for it? Grief. And I’m gonna go home stinking of smoke and booze--since that’s about all you do with your life, and it’s been driving me mad. I can say that now, I’m allowed.” 

Somewhere in his mind Vince thinks it might be a comfort. That he can so easily be himself now. Jones was a silent broody type too, but Vince wasn’t. Maybe helping Dan form clear boundaries between the two personalities would be exactly what he needed. 

“I have no idea how he puts up with you, one day and I was about ready to learn how to read minds just to hold a conversation with you. Grumpy old git you are.” Dan is just smirking at him. “What?” 

“You remind me a lot of how he used to be.” 

Which is a whole other can of worms, and what Vince says is “So tell me about him.” 

Dan hesitates, clearly trying to decide if it would be too much like engaging with the enemy to hold a proper conversation with Vince. He’s still wary, Vince can tell, but underneath that there is an inherent sense of curiosity. Dan was a journalist, he liked to _know_ things. Surely the more he got over the strangeness of this situation he would instead be overcome with fascination. 

Whatever argument he is going through in his head, Dan must come to the conclusion that a few words won’t hurt. “He’s insane.” It’s said with such fondness that Vince finds himself chuckling into the air between them, Dan smirks around the smoke he’s exhaling, but continues. “No really, he’s completely batshit. He asked me to move in with him without knowing me for more than an hour.” 

“He had mentioned,” Vince hums in agreement, watches Dan’s face briefly flash with surprise, but then they’re moving on. 

“Even once I got here it was…” That classic problem, Dan is struggling to find the words for what he is trying to say. “There’s something about the way he sees the world it’s just ridiculous.” He’s already losing momentum, Vince tries his best to maintain an encouraging smile, an open posture. It helps, to some extent. “I’ve never known someone who has been through so much still be so…” 

“Happy?” 

“Radiant.” 

Vince isn’t sure if that’s the word Dan had _meant_ to use, given it’s connotations, but as soon as it’s out there he seems to stare him down with defiance. As if he was daring Vince to comment on it. Not that Vince would, in a roundabout way it’s a nice compliment to his own face. Still, he’s never been good at leaving well enough alone, and he turns his gaze away as he asks, “Have you ever shown him those things you write?” 

The air stills. Pulls taut like a piano wire. Dan’s whole body is stiff and his aura has gone from a gradual relaxing to ice cold and on guard. Vince doesn’t back down, looks up to the larger man’s hard gaze and keeps himself as calm as possible. 

Dan doesn’t answer. He finds something else to talk about. 

“I had thought you’d have left by now… Scampered off back to wherever it was you came from.” 

It’s as close to a question Dan will ask, he thinks, given that he still looks a bit afraid of the answers. “Can’t yet. Made a deal, didn’t we? I’m here until tomorrow morning at least while we--” 

“Help.” Dan finishes for him. “You said you were here to help, what does that mean?” 

“You gonna let me finish a sentence?” Vince scolds, though there’s no real heat to it. He can’t bring himself to _stop_ Dan from talking, not when it had been such a struggle to get him to start all this time. 

Though it works, Dan rolls his eyes, goes back to quietly puffing his way through his cigarette while Vince tries to articulate his answers. 

What he settles on is, “I think you’re clever enough to know exactly why I’m here Dan.” 

And despite the fact he says zero words, the look in his eye says that yes he does. The guilt. The memories of all of their chats from the past few days replaying like film reels. It’s at that point, Dan resorts back to stubborn silence. It's the curtain call on any of that being discussed this morning, Vince thinks. Dan isn't stupid enough to let himself be tricked into conversation like Howard might be, which means Vince is going to have to take a moment to come up with a better way of cajoling him into it. 

“I have to go to the office,” Dan announces a whole two cigarettes later; just after eleven. “Just to pick up some files I shouldn’t be too long but…” 

Vince can see it in his face before the words manifest. 

_But I don’t want you here alone anymore._

“I’m not going to do anything,” Vince says into the air, Dan looks like he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified that Vince knew what he meant. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll just come with you.” 

That somehow looks like an even worse option--and it’s funny how now that he isn’t focusing so hard on his own act, he finds Dan’s silence is much easily understood than before. 

“You can’t have it both ways Dan. I stay or I come.” 

He thinks on this for a moment and then stubs out his cigarette. “Be ready in ten minutes.” 

***

It’s a strange thing really, to step out onto the street and feel a little freer than he had the last time he left. Like now he was himself again he could really appreciate the world around him once more. Last time had been the night of the party, the beginning of the end in Vince's opinion. When he had started to feel the weight of what he was doing and crippling under the pressure of his performance. 

Now though, finally dressed in something other than Dan’s over-sized shirt and in the morning sunshine, Vince is starting to feel like himself again. 

And he can’t seem to contain any of it. 

There’s a bounce to his step where he walks at Dan’s side, feeling rather dwarfed beside the large man as he continues to be stuck with Jones’ beaten trainers and not his own heeled boots. But in some ways, it’s nice. He remembers when they were younger, Howard had already had a growth spurt by the time they’d met. He was a gangly child as well as a lanky teen, and Vince has always been rather on the short side. It was probably why he’d decided on wearing boots with a heel on in the first place, just so he wouldn’t have to tilt his head back as much when he spoke to his friend. 

“You look… happy?” Dan mutters the word as if it tastes foul in his mouth--it's only a tiny bit amusing to Vince. 

It’s an awkward attempt at conversation, but it’s an attempt, and Vince is reluctant to ignore it. “Well, it’s a nice day innit.” 

“Is that all it takes for you?” 

“Yeah, course.” Vince is unashamed of how easy he is to please, Howard may often make fun of it, but personally, Vince would rather find joy in everything than find misery everywhere he turned. Just makes life more fun. “How can you be sad when the suns out and there’s birds singing and you know, everything’s okay?” 

Dan is shooting him a strange look, one that speaks to his utter inability to understand what Vince is going on about. He might honestly be speaking another language for all it looks like Dan comprehends him. And yes, he has gathered there are some serious things wrong with Dan and his mental state, he’s not so dense that he’d not recognise someone who perhaps suffers depressive episodes when he sees them, but still. There’s got to be some way he can inject a little joy into Dan’s life. 

He knows it won’t fix him, nor will he ever just be 'fixed’ but it might make today _of all days_ a little more tolerable for him. 

“There’s always something to find happiness in if you look.” He points out. And when Dan does nothing more than frown at him he stops them both short, tugs on his arm and revels in how Dan’s doesn’t flinch away from the contact like Howard might. Instead he stops as commanded. Vince points definitively at a couple of pigeons perched high on a telephone wire. 

Again, with perfect compliance, Dan looks up at the feathered creatures, and back again. “They’re birds?” 

“Yeah, but what _you_ don’t know is that those birds are having a pretty in depth discussion about someone called Ricky and how he’s skimming on the bird seed lately.” Vince informs him with a smile. “They’re furious. I reckon they’re two tweets away from forming a union.” 

Dan spends an awfully long time just looking at him before a look of understanding crosses his features. “You’re clinically insane aren’t you?” He says. “I’ve been living with the manifestation of insanity for the better part of a week.” 

“You’re being rude again.” Vince informs him, but there’s no anger. Honestly he isn’t that offended by Dan’s insinuation. If this stint as Jones has taught him anything it’s that many people have many worlds all existing at once, and in Vince’s no one has ever questioned his sanity in relation to hearing animals talk. In Jones’? Maybe things like that don’t happen. “I’m not insane, I can talk to animals. Could since I was a little kid.” 

“Of course you can.” 

“No, I really can.” 

Dan just continues to nod at him, but he starts off walking again without waiting for the younger man to follow. Vince has to hurry to catch up, reaches out with enthusiastic child-like fingers to snag on Dan’s sleeve and he hangs on as they walk. Like the contact will somehow make Dan listen to him, and also because he’s going to initiate it as much as possible while he still can; if it's familiar for Dan then he might as well, right? It's a win-win. Dan keeps what he knows and Vince gets a little of what he needs. 

“You don’t have to believe me,” He insists, giving the sleeve of the jacket he’s holding onto a bit of a tug. Dan casts him a reprimanding look. But he says nothing. “I know it’s true, and you did ask why I was so happy.” 

“Talking birds and sunshine, that’s why you’re happy,” 

A firm nod from Vince, his hair--which he had taken great pleasure in styling properly this morning--bounces around his face as he does. “And ‘cause I don’t have to pretend to be Jones anymore.” He adds as an afterthought. 

Dan is the one that stops them walking this time. Halts them in the middle of the path. He looks to the sky briefly, just a second, long enough to gather up all the strength it takes for someone like Dan to engage with someone like Vince (the cynical engaging with the fantastical) and then he cocks his head down at Vince in thought. “I thought that would have been fun for a person like you… playing pretend.” 

“Rude.” Vince reminds. 

It's enough. Oddly, whatever 'training' Jones had put in place over the past eight years, it remains. Dan seems to take this comment about his attitude on board, rolls his eyes for it, but he does try again. “I just mean, you seem to like the…” He struggles over the words. “Whimsy of it all. Surely it was a little bit fun tricking me for so long.” 

Vince thinks about his answer in great depth. This is where there is potential for a misstep if he is not careful. When trying to explain Jones' motivations, when attempting to clarify exactly what they had hoped to achieve. No, in this, they had to be very _very_ cautious. “No, not really.” He answers decisively after a second. “It was never about _tricking_ you, not really. Honestly if I'd done my job proper then you might never have known it was me." Dan looks rather uncomfortable at that having been an option. "It was more about helping you… and Jones. Tryin' to bridge some sort of gap that neither of you could do by yourselves but... I just wasn’t that good at it, I don’t think. Spent more time worrying about what _I_ was doing than worrying about _you_ , which is not what Jones would do.” 

Everything he says seems to blow Dan away. It looks like his brain has done a hard reset the way he just stands there. If he listens very closely, Vince thinks he might have heard a similar icy sound effect to what normally accompanies Howard's freezing, and Vince already knows no coherent response is going to come forth any time soon. Dan will need a moment to properly process what he was insinuating; that Jones cared deeply enough about him to completely displace all four of them just to get help.

So he just tugs on Dan’s arm. “Come on. Quicker we get there, the quicker we get home.” 

Dan, as always, follows obediently. 

***

There’s a bit of a stalemate at the door to the Trash Bat offices. In that Vince, working on his muscle memory of how the place had operated when it was a party venue, tries to head straight inside with brisk confidence. 

Dan stops him with a sharp tug on his arm.

“Wait out here.” He instructs, but no further explanation is forthcoming. 

Vince has no other option but to immediately try to defend himself against whatever slight Dan is mentally accusing him of; he gapes at him in his outrage. “What? Why?” 

And in the wake of that question the answer becomes instantly obvious. Dan doesn't even have to say it (which is good, because he clearly didn't plan on saying it) the way his eyes dart guiltily away from Vince's face is enough of an explanation. Again, Vince is getting good at reading the silence. “They aren’t going to know Dan.” The man doesn’t look in the least bit convinced. Vince adds a slight plea to his tone, “ _You_ didn’t know until I told you and even then you thought I was lying!”

“Not true, I knew _something_ was different I just didn’t think it was…” It speaks volumes that Dan cannot bring himself to say the words yet. 

“That I was a copycat?” 

“Yeah.” 

From Dan's perspective, at least, Vince can understand the worry. Even if there is a minute chance of these people finding out Vince is a doppelgänger to Dan's DJ housemate, it would be the piece of the century for them. It would be another aspect of Dan's life for them to cannibalise. For them to exploit and ruin. It's less that he is worried about Vince doing something to out them, and more worry over sharing the last thing he has that is truly his. Jones. Everything about Jones, which whether Dan likes it or not, now includes Vince's existence. 

Good thing Vince is a wizard when it comes to keeping people happy. He sighs, all fondness and gentle amusement, and he says, “Look you know ‘em better than me, I will wait out here if you think that’s better but I’m just saying… Is it gonna look weird you asked Jones to wait outside or would he probably come with you?” 

Dan shifts his weight on his feet, considers Vince where he stands, and then heaves a deep sigh. “Fine, but only because Claire’s probably seen us out her window by now and if I leave you out here she’s going to ask why.” 

That’s a good enough reason for them both, and Dan politely holds the door open for him so he can head in first. 

Seeing the space in the harsh reality of it's daylight hours, in some ways, throws Vince through a loop. If at all possible it looks worse. Without the distortion of flashing multicoloured lights and distraction of hideous noise, the mish-mash of aesthetics Nathan was going for is like an eyesore. Well, it had been at the party too but, being able to witness it in full light of day is frankly a sight he could have gone without. 

Vince doesn't claim to be an interior designer but he likes to think he has some idea of what looks good, and this isn't it. 

Even the sparse few people they have milling about seem awkward and wrong in the spaces they occupy. Like they too are in environments that they don't belong. There's a few weaselly looking people, still all holding cameras, gathered at the back of the room. A meek figure of a man hunched at a desk, his dark hair almost covering his eyes where he has his head dipped low, all his focus on some kind of graphic he's working on. Barley, Vince notices with a smug twist of satisfaction, is aware of their presence but is choosing to hover a safe distance away by an empty desk rather than approach them. 

Instead, it's Claire who addresses them first; like Dan had predicted she had been hovering by the window but she makes a beeline for them as they enter, shoulder to shoulder. “What’s he doing here?” She demands immediately, and though Vince is sure she isn’t intending it to be unkind, her brusque nature makes it come across that way. He channels his inner Jones for (hopefully) the last time, and folds his arms over his chest with as much defiance as possible. 

Personally, Vince thinks it's rather amusing that since Barley interprets Vince (Jones) as Dan's guard dog, he has had to set forth his own in the form of Claire. Because the way she eyes Vince and Vince alone with trepidation, it is clear Nathan has made it known to the woman exactly how he had behaved at the party. 

Dan must click on too, because his air of discomfort gets briefly lost to his own humour. "He needed a walk." He mutters. "Have you got the treatment or what?" 

One last look to Vince--a proper assessing one too, the kind bouncers give you on the door of clubs before they tell you that you aren't good enough to get in--Claire scoops a file from her desk and thrusts it out towards Dan. "We're looking at between six and ten episodes."

Despite her saying it calmly, tone level, Dan still flinches at the words. It makes something protective hiss in Vince's gut. 

And somehow, without realising, he's started to take a step forward. He's not even sure what he was hoping to accomplish with the move, but he knows it makes the form of Nathan shuffle anxiously where he is still watching them. Honestly, it's intoxicating, this feral thing Jones' life has a habit of waking up in him. That _Dan_ has a habit of waking up in him. So used to playing the doe-eyed people-pleaser in his own life he perhaps gets off on being the tough one for once. _The man of action_. Dan's hand has shot out to touch at his hip like he's calling him off, before he can do anything though, and Vince reels himself back in. 

"Same commission?'

Claire rolls her eyes. "Yes, Dan." And he thinks that's it, they'll take the work and head back to the flat and potentially talk more about this thing with Jones. Until Claire decides to patronisingly add, "I wish you wouldn't act like you're being sentenced to death, it's good money, you know."

And the way Dan looks to the floor like a scolded child is what does it. Vince sidles up to his side without a care for the other people in the room and lowers his voice a little. “Don't do it," Dan peeks a look down at him, confused. Vince easily reminds him of the sentiment he had expressed the first day they’d met. “ _Nothing_ in the world is worth making yourself this unhappy over."

The thing he forgets in all his advice giving is that the Ashcroft siblings are as mouthy as each other, and whether it's the actual advice or the fact Vince (Jones) is the one delivering it. Something seems to set Claire into annoyance. "No offence Jones, but I reckon Dan can make his own choices, yeah?" 

At which point Vince sees red. 

"Yeah, which means he can choose to listen to the only damn person here who gives a shit about his well being, Claire." He snaps. Thankfully with enough sense of mind to keep his voice low--Dan's pain does not belong to anyone but the people who are interested in helping to prevent it--and therefore the conversation private. And maybe Vince was supposed to come here today, maybe he can do something other than fuck up. Maybe all that anger from last night would come in handy after all, because rather than use it as a weapon against _himself_ , he can quite easily direct it at the real problems in this world.

Like Nathan fucking Barley and his parade of dickheads. 

"I-" Claire splutters, almost certainly shocked by the outburst. Her eyes a bit panicked, they dart to Dan with concern and then back to Jones. She looks like she might begin to defend herself any second but no words come. 

Vince remembers the party, her quiet uttered words in his ear. _Don't let him drink too much._

Vince _knows_ Claire is not as oblivious to Dan's struggle as she pretends to be, he knows she likely genuinely thinks she is helping by keeping him in a job that pays well and is stable. But far from it, she's tethering him to one of the very things that will destroy him from the inside out. 

"You know better than that. I know you do." Vince pleas; in retaliation Dan's hand has latched around his forearm and is squeezing-- _hard._ But Vince couldn't care less. He lives a life that is about acting not laying down and being unhappy. They left the zoo to start a band because they _wanted to_. They did everything because they wanted to, so it baffled him Dan would continue to exist and be this unhappy. So he snatches the treatment from Dan's hands and holds it out to the female Ashcroft. In the back of the room Barley looks horrified, but he still doesn't step forward. 

Claire looks at the documents and then at Vince. Back to the documents, to Dan, and finally she stares at Vince and her face morphs into cold hard defiance. 

"Actually," she says, loud enough for Barley to hear. "I think we might get someone else to look at these."

"What-- you cant--" Nathan is cut off by the authority in Claire's voice. 

"It was really very kind of you Nathan, keeping Dan on like that because he's my brother but you don't have to anymore." She's good, almost as good as Vince the way she bats her lashes and spins to face Nathan. 

"I don't?" Barley squeaks. It's clear he has no idea what's happening, but he's hypnotised by the smile Claire sends him. 

"I really appreciate all you've done but I know you were scoping out that new writer from the party… What was their name?" Someone hand Claire Ashcroft an Oscar. Vince has competition when it comes to his ability to--not manipulate, that’s an ugly word--nudge people in the right direction. "Dee wasn’t it?” 

Nathan’s eyes seem to widen in response, almost guiltily. His eyes dart back to his computer. As do Claire’s; her face doesn’t change, not a bit, but the air around her does. It’s like she’s just caught the scent of something in Nathan’s persona--something like fear. She continues, “I know I definitely saw you reading some of her work during work hours… Was that not research, Nathan?” 

And like that, quiet worry falls away to falsified confidence in the blink of an eye. Nathan adopts the posture of a person who had been in the know from the beginning, and he struts confidently to Claire's side to address both Vince and Dan with an air of superiority. “Oh yeah. Yeah, really fascinating stuff, preach. Real gritty works about the state of the world, you know?” 

“It’s porn.” Claire fills in, and beneath her blank expression Vince sees the delight in her features that Nathan seems to flounder at that accusation. 

“Don’t be stupid,” He chuckles nervously. “No it’s… You’re taking it at face value. It’s got some proper deep meanings when you look for ‘em.” 

“Is that before or after the boys kiss each other, Nathan?” Claire asks, for all the world her tone sounding as innocent as a new-born lamb. Vince has to chew on his lip to keep from laughing. 

“I can’t help it if you don’t understand it.” Barley sticks his chin up, literally looking down his nose at the sister Ashcroft. “But anyway, you were right. I have been researching, ‘cause I think she can bring something to Trash Bat. Sorry Claire, I know he’s your brother and all but I need someone with a more… Fresh insight.” 

On cue, Claire shoots a wide eyed stare to her brother. For all the world, Dan looks like not a single one of them is speaking English, He’s completely lost, and unable to comment. “I think you’re right, too.” She says solemnly. 

Playing into his role perfectly, Nathan darts forward to take the treatments from Claire's hands. He pats her comfortingly on the shoulder and mutters _‘Leave this to me’_ before he’s sidling up to Dan. Though he gives Vince a dramatically wide berth. 

“Listen Preach, I know this is going to be hard on you. But I think we’re going to go in a different direction for the full series.” He says, full of false sympathy and misguided sorrow. “This Dee, she’s just got a fresher look on things you know? Been on the streets, mingling with the amigos, getting mad about things. You’ve sort of been hanging back a bit, haven’t you? And it’s just not what we're looking for.” 

Dan looks a little shell-shocked to be honest. He forgets to reply until the moment Vince pries his grip away from Vince's forearm and links their fingers together. He gives him a comforting squeeze. At which point he manages to gather himself enough to nod his head. 

Nathan reaches out to clap him on the shoulder, but the motion stops itself midway when he realises just how close Vince is standing, and he concludes he’d rather not get that close lest he be in the firing line once more. He settles for a half arsed salute and then calls _‘see ya preach!”_ before he’s taking off for his computer. 

No doubt to remind himself of Dee’s work. 

Claire shoots Vince a small smile, and Vince winks at her with as much charm as he manages. He’s pleased to see a small blush colour her cheeks. 

“Bye Dan,” Claire waves shyly, and Dan says nothing. 

Vince leads him from the building silently, the man having to be guided with Vince’s hand in his every step of the way. They get exactly nine steps out of the building before Dan’s brain catches up with what just happened and Vince finds his wrist being snatched by a very irate Dan Ashcroft. 

“Did you just cost me my fucking job?” He demands, but there’s no hint of anger in his tone, more like confusion. Daresay; relief. 

“Not really, sounds like Barley just went in another direction creatively.” Vince beams up at him, tries to make it not cheeky, but he has a feeling he is failing spectacularly on that front. “It happens Dan, don’t worry about it.” 

“Don’t worry--” Dan steps back from him, carts a hand roughly over his face. “Jones, I need that job it--” 

“Not Jones.” 

It halts any arguments in its track. Dan stands, the autumn sun shining around him like a halo, outlining the stiff posture he’s holding. And as much as he is lamenting his job loss, Vince has never seen those shoulders slump as they are now… like the weight of the world has been lifted from them. “Sorry.” He breathes.

“No it’s fine, not like you bothered to find out my real name.” Oddly, Vince isn’t actually meaning to be brattish when he says it. And when Dan only winces in response he hurries to add. “I mean… I didn’t think it was that important you were sort of wrapped up with Jones-- which is fine.” 

Dan doesn’t comment. He takes three distinct deep breaths, looks to his feet and then says. 

“Tell me your name?” 

“Vince.” 

“Vince.” Dan nods, as if agreeing. “Okay then, Vince, you just made me unemployed, so I suppose breakfast is on you then isn’t it?” 

He hasn’t the heart to argue that he bought it yesterday, simply steps forward and links his arm with Dan’s and leads him in the direction of his preferred café. 

***

Breakfast is a silent affair, unsurprisingly. Neither of them actually eat, they just order respective drinks and start a slow walk home in the sunshine. It’s just past noon, and the sun is high in the sky but surrounded by enough clouds that it is struggling to reach a high temperature. Even in Jones’ leather jacket Vince is shivering. 

Dan keeps sending him curious glances, and this is exactly why Vince doesn’t say anything. He thinks it’s about time Dan learnt to start a conversation about the things he _wants_ to talk about. 

However, when it happens, it’s one of the most startling occurrences of Vince’s young life. 

“You single then?”

Vince actually chokes on his tea. He has to pause on the pavement in order to cough his way to being able to breathe again. Dan pauses by his side, watches on with concern but makes no effort to move forward and help. Vince isn't sure if this is because he doesn't know how to help or if he simply has enough faith that he won't _have_ to. And when has Dan ever done anything he didn't explicitly have to do? 

“What kind of question is that!” Vince rasps eventually, eyes watering and throat raw from his choking. 

Dan just shrugs at him, and without saying a word Vince can hear the _‘is it not a normal one?’_ in a little vulnerable voice, a lot like Howard when his social skills inevitably failed him. The kind of pitched up and breathy mutter that prefaced them meeting the goth girls, the _'what am I gonna do then, can you help?'_. Back when Howard had trusted him enough to ask for his assistance. With a memory like that, he's rather reluctant to scold Dan for any inappropriateness he may be demonstrating, and instead he simply nods his head down the path, indicating they should keep walking from where they had paused. 

He supposes if he's asking questions then he's not pushing him away. 

“Yeah, I’m single.” Vince replies eventually, and he doesn’t have to look at Dan to know he is being regarded with interest. “But I ain’t interested if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

A deep chuckle, the first laugh he’d heard from him in some time, and Dan says, “No. I just wondered…" The sentence trails off; words catching in Dan's throat. Vince gets the sense that inappropriate was about to become the least of his worries. "That man in the photograph… The one who looks like me...” 

Oh. Now it makes sense. Dan was a journalist. No stone left unturned. 

“It’s not like that, me and him.” As he says it he stares at the ground. Observes how the shadows he and Dan cast are intimately familiar to him. The similar shapes bumping shoulders as they walk. They're having to go slow, Dan's leg preventing them from hastening home as quickly as either of them might want to, but Vince finds he doesn't mind. Even with a chill to the air; this conversation is better had outdoors he thinks. Jones' flat may have been too stifling. 

Perceptive as ever, Dan smiles sadly at him. When Vince peeks up to catch his eye he delivers a tight smile in response. Dan easily conveys with his pinched features that he most likely knows that Vince desperately wants it to be _exactly_ like that between them, and he is sorry that it isn't. Vince replies, with no words, only the gentle shrug of his shoulders, that he is grateful for the sympathy but it's not needed.

He's pretty used to it by now. 

Another few steps, Dan's questions begin again. “And Jones he's... with that man?” He asks hesitantly. Once again Vince nods. Dan swallows thickly. “Let’s hope they don’t get along too well then, for both our sakes.” 

And it’s the epitome of everything Vince had been worrying about the night before, and he gets a rush of relief that he’s not the only one who had been worrying about that exact scenario. So much so that he bursts into cackling laughter. “Well, if they piss off together I suppose we can be friends can’t we?” 

Dan looks him over, one long look, and then he says. “Yeah, I suppose we can.” 

It sets Vince's insides fizzing away like a shook up champagne bottle, and he explodes into a grin. As far as Dan was concerned, that was the closest he was getting to an admission of being liked. 

For that, Vince bumps his shoulder to Dan companionably. "I think you'll be fine, though." He announces; reminds himself he needs to be less gloomy and more sunshine--for both their sakes. Dan's apparent query over this declaration is made clear, Vince elaborates. "We've been talking you know, all this time. I know he would never leave you behind." There's that sense of freezing again. Dan's legs keep moving but his mouth hangs open in wordless surprise. "Otherwise I think he would have done it by now, don't you?" 

And at least in that, there is no hesitation. Dan snorts his amusement and heartily agrees. "Oh, almost certainly." 

The rest of their walk home is made in companionable silence. 

***

When they arrive back at the flat, Dan grumbles something about having to find himself a new job--since Vince just cost him his--and moves to grab for his laptop. Except, with this new found bravery he has been exhibiting since revealing his identity, Vince steps into his way. Acts as a barrier between Dan and his computer; arms folded and feet planted. 

"I have questions." Is what he says, and Dan is helpless to do much but blink owlishly at him. Which is fine, Vince is coming to understand that the best way to deal with Dan is to inject just enough authority into everything you do without making yourself out to be a threat. It's a complicated balancing act, but one Vince feels he's getting better at with time. 

So when he adds a gentle, "Please," And points sternly to the sofa with an unspoken order... Dan goes. 

The only problem being once he has Dan where he wants him, settled comfortably in his place of interrogation, he has no idea where to start. There's too many different questions all fighting for position of number one. He's debating whether to start soft or go in at the deep end and try to get some of the more gritty answers out of the way now. Should he perhaps sit too? Maybe he should have offered him a drink or _god_ some pain-killers his leg after all that walking and--

"You don't make a habit of this do you?" Dan asks, his amusement is palpable. 

"Uh... To be honest not really..." In Dan's humour he finds some comfort, and his shoulders slump with the relief of it. Rather than hover ominously above Dan like he had during the night of his drunken confessions, Vince opts to slide onto the other side of the sofa from him. Fidgets anxiously with the hem of his shirt. "I've done lots of weird stuff but never anything like this so... I don't really know where to start, to be honest." 

It's like a switch is flipped. Dan goes from this hopeless, grumpy, bear of a man, to the kind of person that genuinely understands how to help people struggling around him. Vince isn't entirely sure if it's a conscious thing, but he certainly starts to understand why he might have been so drawn to Jones as a person when this softer, more nurturing side exists. "Well, would it help if I asked something first?" 

He can't even bring himself to be put out by the voice Dan chooses to use--the _'I'm talking to a five year old who doesn't understand something'_ voice--because he's _engaging_ and that makes it worth it. 

With a nod of his head, Dan is asking, "Did you really meet him in the bathroom of a club?" 

Of all things, Vince is a little surprised this is the line of inquiry Dan is going with, but with a smirk he nods his head. "Yeah, he was coming in and I was goin' out--literally walked into each other. It was pretty spooky." The answer seems to satisfy the other man, and like expected, now they had gotten started, Vince feels little to no panic about starting to open his own investigations. "He told me how you met but I did wonder... Why did you go along with it? Like, Jones is--" 

"--Batshit crazy--" 

"--Yeah," Vince snickers. "But you seem a bit more... Logical and dull. Why did you just move in with him straight away?" 

There's little to no thought behind Dan's answer. "I was lonely."

And it's so startlingly _sincere_ that Vince is a little caught off guard. He'd expected sarcasm, maybe some kind of avoidance but no. Simply honesty. Vince's mouth drops open a little with his surprise, and Dan just maintains stern eye contact. He clears his throat, darts his eyes away briefly but then the stare is back, and he says. "I want to understand, Vince, and I can't promise I'll make a lot of sense but if you need answers, I'll tell you what you need to know just..." Another pause as he tries to articulate himself. "I need that too... okay?" 

Vince is breathless with the weight of this responsibility. He sits up straighter like a kid at school trying to prove how good they can be, how much attention they can pay to a particular topic. He nods his head, "Okay."

"Okay," With that, Dan's fear evaporates (get's smothered) and is replaced with his inherent curiosity. "Can you be sure you're not family, then?" 

"Certain." Vince brushes that question off with a reprimanding look, challenging him to do better with his wonderings. "Definitely not twins, I'm a bit older than he is, and he... I don't have family either." 

There's a flash of sympathy but Dan must know enough from Jones to not try and pry. Instead, he moves them swiftly on. "So what, just.. A weird occurrence?" 

"Think so. See, Your world is all dull and boring," Dan looks both annoyed but resigned by this accusation. "But where I'm from, things like this happen all the time." 

Dan smirks at him. "The same world where you can talk to animals?" 

"Yeah!" He tries very hard not to look into the affection in Dan's gaze in that moment, hard enough that he just barrels on with his questions. "Those things you write--" Dan stiffens. "--I know you don't wanna talk about them but... But does he know?" 

This is the question that stalls them. Not even just because Vince is asking about the writings, or about something deeply personal, because it seems, that Dan meant what he said. They stall because Dan adjusts his posture, he is steeling himself against what he's about to say. His jaw clenches, fingers opening and closing into fists where they rest on his thighs. He is not even close to looking at Vince any more, has cast his eyes upwards to where the painted visage of their subject matter hangs on the wall. 

And then he talks. 

"About two months into living with him he started getting new gigs," Vince doesn't know the relevance to his question, but he knows that what he's about to hear is important... so he listens. He tucks his legs up under him, sits forward with an open posture, and he listens. "You should have seen him back then he was so... little. And I don't mean physically, I mean in every way possible. He was so naive and joyous and, well _daft._ His spirit was so... And when gigs scared him I sort of-- well I'd go, just to make sure he was okay. He liked the support or something, I don't know, but I would go. Anyway, new gigs meant new contacts and sometimes when you're in the performance industry, especially music, you can do a sort of swap with other--"

"Yeah I know." 

Speaking might have been a mistake, Vince is worried he's startled Dan out of his memories but, rather, a look of realisation crosses Dan's face. Without having been explicitly told, he seems to understand that Vince knows the music industry and resolves to not have to explain anymore of it to him. He carries on. "He started getting residencies in different countries and of course, they scared him, so he'd need someone to be there and back then I was, well, better at my job. I could write what I wanted and the magazine would publish it so we spent some time sort of travelling the world. And it felt like..." 

Vince remembers. _New Beginnings._ "You started writing about him?" 

Dan nods his head, Vince's fingers creep over and latch onto whatever part he can reach; he ends up with his hand cupped around Dan's thigh and desperate as he is for reassurance, Dan's hand lands on top of his. "I never thought--I never _intended_ to keep some sort of creepy fucking folder dedicated to all _that_ but as long as he's been around I haven't been able to do much else." 

On some level, Vince can understand that. "But it's not _all_ about him is it?"

"No." Dan scrubs his free hand over his face, once more trying to hide from the things he says but rather bravely, not allowing himself to. "No, somewhere along the line I found it helped with other things too. Like putting it there meant it at least wasn't in my head anymore and I... I don't know. Wouldn't think about it." 

"So, can I ask, are you more afraid of him seeing the ones about him?" He asks tentatively, Dan pinches his eyes shut as if in pain. "Or the ones about yourself?" 

His silence screams a definitive _both._ But if Vince had to guess, Dan is as afraid of _being_ loved as he is of loving someone else. 

And with that ringing in the air between them, Vince gives Dan's leg a press of comfort and then begins to stand. "I'll get you something for your leg okay?" 

Dan says nothing as he creeps from the room; chooses to stare at Jones' painting instead. 

***

It’s getting close to two. Dan is furiously typing away at his laptop, after their sharing session he had rightly retreated once more from Vince and into his corner of silence. To be honest, Vince isn't that angry about it, Dan has earned some quiet time, and so he has made himself comfortable on the floor with an old notebook Dan told him (with one grunt for yes) that he was allowed to scribble in. 

They have been silent for a very long time. More than content to get on with their separate tasks and recharge their respective batteries. That is, until Dan says into the air, “Why are you here, Vince?” 

Vince blinks up at him, and he barely considers how best to break the answer to him before Dan is demanding. “No lies. Please. Just tell me why _you’re_ here and not Jones.” 

Right then, brutal honesty pact from earlier must still be in tact. “He didn’t know how to talk to you.” 

“About what?” 

“You.” 

They sit in silence for a long time. Vince staring at Dan and Dan staring back. Its a stalemate as Dan tries his best to decipher exactly what that answer means. Vince considers elaborating, but not only has the cat got his tongue, the bugger has ran off with it. He can only sit in worried silence as ugly realisation dawns on Dan’s face. 

“He told you everything.” He says, and Vince sees memories of the past few days hit him like physical punches. “You knew about my medication and the drinking and… He told you _everything.”_

Vince doesn’t know what to say. There’s really nothing he can say. He can’t deny it, it’s true. Though technically Jones didn’t tell him a lot of it, it was merely coincidence of Vince's own nosey nature that led them down this path. But the fundamental betrayal is there. Jones welcomed Vince into their lives without the chance for Dan to guard his privacy nor his dignity--for all intents and purposes he had indulged secrets to a _complete stranger._

Dan does not take well to being exposed like this.

He stands quickly, makes a beeline for the kitchen on wobbly legs. Vince already knows where he’s going, leaps to his feet and chases him down as fast as his shorter legs and the cramped space will allow. He almost certainly trips over something he hopes isn't important on his way; stumbles bodily into the kitchen. 

“Dan don't.” 

Too late, he rounds the corner and Dan is reaching for a bottle of whiskey. His features set in fury. Of course this is the first reaction he'd think of. What was the one thing that would hurt both Jones and Vince (and almost certainly Dan) in one fell swoop? Act out. Act out and break every promise he'd made over the past few days. Vince reaches out to snatch the bottle but finds himself shoved hard in the centre of his chest. Though it does make Dan pause in his actions, long enough to consider Vince's smaller frame in contrast to the large palm holding him at arms length. 

Vince peers up at him from under his lashes, feels his own features harden in sick defiance for what Dan is trying to do to himself, and by proxy, to Jones. “You promised this was going to stop.” 

“I promised _Jones_ it would stop,” Dan corrects him. “Only I’m realising that wasn’t really him was it. So why should I hold up my end of the bargain if he can’t be fucked to hold up his.” 

It’s a stalemate. Vince can’t exactly argue with him on that point. As much as he likes to profess he isn’t that stupid, in comparison to Dan… well, he is. Dan felt betrayed and hurt and _vulnerable._ His only friend in the whole world had not only swapped places to be away from him… but had told Vince everything about him in the process. Things Dan would rightly want to keep to himself. 

“Getting smashed in the middle of the day _isn’t_ to get back at Jones, Dan.” Vince points out, this time when he reaches for the bottle, Dan's weakened grip easily let's it go to him. Vince starts to back of willingly, taking Dan's vice with him. “It’s not the way to make yourself feel better.” 

Something in the older man’s expression darkens. Sick smirk twisting on his features, full of bitter amusement and hurtful remorse. He casts his eyes away, gathering his resolve, Vince supposes. And then he’s back. Eyes boring into Vince’s very soul as he mutters, “Yeah I suppose there are better ways of teaching him a lesson aren’t there?” 

Vince doesn’t get a chance to ask what he means. Dan is advancing on him. His back hits the wall faster than he can process it; there’s a firm but delicate hand on his cheek, guiding his head into a comfortable angle. The whiskey bottle between Vince’s fingers crashes to the floor; Dan’s free hand gripping at his hip and dragging him bodily to him. 

This is nothing like the kiss in the alleyway. 

That had been tentative and scared, something fresh blooming with hope. This is filthy and animalistic. Vince is worried that Dan's mouth will descend to his neck next and bite down, tear the life from him. It’s frantic and full of pain and Vince… Vince doesn’t know how to make it stop.

In his own turbulent emotion all he can do is cling on. Afraid of being washed away. Fingers grip harshly at Dan’s clothes, he rocks up onto his toes and he lets it happen. Part of him feels bad, awful even, he knows this is not what he wants, not _who_ he wants it from. But his world had been turned upside down, inside out, and rammed into someone else's world and he was hurting too... They were both hurting and alone and vulnerable. 

It didn't mean anything and yet all at once it means everything. 

So Vince loses himself to the feeling of being needed for just a moment, long enough that Dan’s fingers sink into his hair and Vince’s breath gets a little whiny. But the second larger fingers are tugging at the hem of his shirt he knows it can’t go any further. 

Because Vince will not be used as revenge. 

Not when he is so quietly confident Dan can get this and so much more from the _actual person_ he needs it from. He and Howard? Who knows, but at the end of the day he knows for certain that Jones will always come back for his Dan, and Dan would forever regret whatever drives a wedge between himself and Jones. 

Vince catches Dan’s wandering hands, stops them in their tracks. He delivers an affectionate peck to Dan’s cheek, the kind of thing that one might give a close friend. Full of feeling but in no way heated, and he sinks back onto his feet. 

Peering up at Dan, Vince quietly orders. “Go, before you do something he can’t forgive you for.” 

Dan blinks down at him, it’s the closest he has ever looked to tears. But he goes. 

***

Two hours. 

Dan is gone for two hours, and this time, Vince does not hover outside of his bedroom. He can not and will not be the weak one this time. For Dan's sake, he has to be ready to take whatever is coming to him when he chooses to emerge, and for Vince, what this translates to is finding some way to make himself useful in the time he has.

He cleans. Look, in his own home, Howard is very much the domestic God of the household. He cooks for them, and does most of the cleaning, but Vince isn't _so_ hopeless that he can't do the basics. He can wipe down counters and rinse mugs. Throw away empty beer bottles and sweep up shards of a smashed whiskey bottle. He can take whatever alcohol is left lying around, stand on a chair, and stack it on a high shelf with the optimistic thought Dan might not want any very soon. 

And when he's done that, he can search through the cupboards and find whatever he can to scrape together some food for them both, which turns out to be a cheese sandwich. 

When Dan reappears, he is standing at the kitchen counter buttering bread. He says nothing to the other man, but smiles welcomingly when he ventures into the room to hover by his side and watch him. There he remains, feeding off the close proximity to help him force words out of his throat, and Vince doesn't deny him. He carries on with his meager cooking, and it's a version of comfortable. 

Another ten minutes of Dan's inner turmoil--fidgeting with everything from his own clothes to empty food wrappers on the counter--but eventually mutters, “I should apologise for doing that to you.” so quietly that Vince almost doesn’t hear it. “I…” 

Vince waits patiently. Continues to scrape together their food. 

“He’s all I have.” With that Vince pauses, sensing Dan is once again ready to bare his soul just a little bit. He sets aside the food and turns to Dan, eyes wide and imploring. “He’s all I have ever had and I don’t know how to… when he’s not around I just…” 

“I get it, Dan.” Vince says easily. Because he does. Vince might have been a damn sight more functional than Dan is, but the two weeks in which Howard was supposedly gone from his life forever? There wasn’t much coping going on. “I do. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” 

Dan seems confused by this, until Vince adds. “Jones is the one who needs to hear this.” 

Looking at his feet, Dan gives the quietest little sniff that almost sounds like a precursor to tears. Vince points gently back to the living room, hands Dan a sandwich, and follows him out of the room. They settle together, eat in polite silence, and the entire time Vince watches Dan like a mother might watch her sleeping new-born baby. With intense concern. He watches every rise and fall of his chest (he's breathing a little heavily) and how his eyes dart around the room guiltily.

But he says nothing, not yet. Dan needed to eat, and clam down, then they could talk. 

It isn't until they’re finished, and some colour had returned to Dan's cheeks, that Vince clears his throat. “The reason I’m here Dan, is because he is just as scared as you are. You know.” Dan won’t look at him, but he’s listening, the slight cock of his head gives him away. “Told me things haven’t been the same, not since the window.” Dan winces. “And he doesn’t know why but he is afraid he can’t fix it and that you’ll both just… fall apart if you don’t.” 

“I’d argue I’m in pieces already.” 

“Possible, but that’s okay.” Vince shrugs kindly at him. “I think… whether or not you’re a whole person doesn’t matter to him… I think he just wants you to be able to tell him if you’re not. You know?” 

“I think so.” 

“You didn’t call him from the hospital.” 

Dan looks at him then, with such pain and vulnerability Vince almost cries for him. But he’s got to be strong. He needs to fix this for them lest he admit he has failed. He will not fail, not for either of them. Enough staring and Dan cracks. 

“I am… Not a good man, Vince.” Dan says. And then bizarrely elaborates with, “I don’t know _why_. I don’t… I just--” He sighs, demonstrating the classic Ashcroft struggle of his words failing him. “I’ve always felt like I’m a bit wrong. I ruin things. I say awful things, I do awful things and he’s so…” Vince waits patiently. “He’s good. He’s what goodness looks like.” Dan is welling up now, one tear breaks free. “I ruined him once, and I can’t do it again.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I… Did he tell you we used to…” 

“Sleep together?” 

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. Uncomfortable. “He never said it but he was miserable because I couldn’t give him what he needed. I’m too messy, I’m not good at the… connection with people. I don’t do the lovey-dovey stuff and it just… it was only a few weeks but I saw it in him.” 

In Vince's opinion, this was something they definitely needed to examine further together. Because from what he knew of Jones as a person, he was sure that Dan's inability to be 'lovey-dovey' wasn't what was making him unhappy. By rights, was he ever unhappy? There was certainly more investigation needed because... well, Jones had sounded about as upset on the phone about the fact Dan still _wanted_ him but hadn't been _having_ him as Dan was now about the whole thing. 

They just weren't communicating, the silly pricks. 

“Obviously when we stopped he was hurt but we got better and it was fine… and then Barley happened and we fought a bit more and the window….” Dan keeps letting his tears fall. “I woke up in hospital and the first person I wanted to call was Jones but I _couldn’t_ because he has gone through too much for me to be the one to break him. I refuse to be the one who does that to him. I'd never forgive myself.” 

It was a hell of a martyr complex but somehow, Vince didn’t feel it was entirely selfish on Dan’s part. He genuinely worried everyday of his life that he would break Jones. Jones who, by all accounts, had spent his life battling all sorts only to come out of the other side. Jones who hides his real self from the world, but for reasons unknown chooses to show himself to Dan. The pair of fucking idiots. 

“Can I tell you what I think?” Dan nods silently. “Tell him. There’s a handful of things I can see that makes Jones happy in this world, and I’m telling you, you’re one of them. Tell him.” 

“And what if I ruin him?” 

Vince slides closer, throws his arm around the larger man's shoulders with only a little hesitation. “At this point, you run the risk of doing it if you just keep silent anyway. So tell him,” 

Dan considers him out of the corner of his eye before he seems to deflate, accepting what Vince is saying to him. He bobs his head in a nod, and content he’s made some progress, Vince gives the body beside him an encouraging squeeze. To his utter shock, Dan drops his head onto Vince's shoulder and takes a steadying breath. 

Vince was not going to deny him comfort when he needed it. 

***

“What’s he called, the man you live with?” 

He's not been sleeping, not properly, but ever since the rather emotional outpouring Dan had engaged in, the pair of them hand't moved much from their positions at all. Well, Vince had shifted long enough to stick some background music on, but then they had settled, and Dan had even allowed Vince's delicate fingers to play through his short hair. Since then, they had remained, and Vince had perhaps assumed the larger man was sleeping on his shoulder how still he had gone; content to simply sit beside him and wonder if he'd like Howard's hair this short. 

He had decided some time ago the answer was no. 

“Howard.” He answers softly, afraid of shattering this peace they had found together. 

He needn't worry, Dan's voice is nothing more than a gentle rumble where it replies. "You love him.” 

And while Vince hadn't intended for any part of this conversation to turn around on him, he supposes it’s the least he owes Dan. They had made a promise after all, they answer each other honestly. He feels a lump form in his throat. “I do.” 

Fabric rustles as Dan turns his head enough to consider Vince's features. “Does he love you back?” 

It's nothing more than a whisper. A hushed breath. “I don’t know.” 

“He should.” Dan says sincerely. “You’re wonderful.” 

And at that point, he is the one to turn his face away from Dan. Honestly, he had cried so many tears today, on this rollercoaster of a Saturday, that he is certain no more could physically fall. But the threat of them is there, and when he reaches up to scrub his free hand at his eyes, he thinks even Dan wouldn't judge him. 

They're a mess the pair of them, but at least, once you hit the bottom like this, there is no where else to go but up. 

"Are you tired?" Vince asks, ignores the wobble to his voice. Dan does too, only shakes his head in silence where it has gone back to resting on Vince's shoulder. "Okay then. Well, why don't I tell you a story then?" 

"What about?" 

"Well, anything really. Me an' Howard took this holiday to Salcombe and he got ravaged by seagulls," Even without the full context, Dan offers a weak chuckle. "Or, I could tell you about how I was raised in the jungle as a baby." Without even seeing his face, Vince can tell Dan's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and so he settles on that one. "Jungle it is." 

Today might have been hard, for them both, but tomorrow Vince was going home, and Dan would once again have his Jones. 

From there... Who knew what awaited them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have found a way to shoehorn some of my own *100% Real* poetry into this fic and I'm only a little bit sorry for that. 
> 
> Next chapter as soon as life allows!


	11. We've got nothing to prove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jones gets the last pieces of the puzzle he needs to understand Howard and Vince. And he finally opens up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can I apologise for the chapter gaps? Who knows. 
> 
> Anyway, have a healthy dose of angst and comfort for some of our favourite boys!

To say Jones wakes up to his Saturday would be a lie. 

Even in the plush comfort of Vince’s bed, he only manages to steal around an hour of sleep. Perhaps it was the excitement of the creative process Howard had sparked within him; rusted cogs beginning to turn in ways they hadn’t for years. Maybe it was the trepidation of going back to Dan tomorrow morning, entirely uncertain where he would stand or if the man would even be aware of a switch taking place. The most likely contender in this game of who's who, though, was the lingering sense of unease that had come from the night before. 

_ “I’d quite like to know you.” _

Without even knowing he was doing it, Howard had stumbled upon one of Jones’ biggest fears and dug his heels in.

It was a happy coincidence that Howard had taught him the value of using meal times as an adequate distraction from serious topics. Jones had dashed from the room with the excuse of ordering them some dinner before Howard could delve any deeper into his personal life. 

Realistically it wasn’t Howard’s fault. The man was just curious; and rightly so. Jones was something strange and fantastic while also being eerily familiar. Howard would of course want to know him. Even if he hadn’t been interested to begin with, Jones’ constant prying into Howard’s life would no doubt have inspired him into his own wonderings. But the problem with the Northern man’s inherent curiosity was that Jones would rather have his teeth pulled than talk about himself in any capacity. 

With that hanging over his head, Jones does not sleep well Friday night. 

By the time Howard stirs, Jones is already awake and scribbling hastily into his acquired notebook. More notes twirling from the nib of his pen by the low light of a lamp. Snatches of melody manifesting in disjointed bars of writing. It’s frankly the most productive Jones has felt in a few weeks; the guilty thought does enter his mind that perhaps it was because he was free from the stifling air of a flat that had become quite unpleasant to live in as of late. 

Which is perhaps why he’s so intent on continuing to work into his notebook. Because Jones was a professional at ignoring things he didn’t want to think about through the use of music. 

If he couldn’t play it he could certainly write it. 

Howard awakes with an endearing little sigh, the lump of him under the covers rolls over and rumpled curls peek up over the duvet. Jones pauses in his writing long enough to watch his waking up process while he’s rather unaware. It looks like it takes Howard a couple of minutes to properly enter the land of the living. Even as he shifts he is yet to open his eyes. His features scrunch up in apparent disgust of this development; Jones would bet his little shifting motions are his best attempt to reclaim the dreams that he’d lost. Eventually, those brown eyes blink open enough to consider the room around him and Jones has to bite his lip to stifle his amusement. Howard takes a moment to figure out what he’s looking at, if the twist of confusion is anything to go by. 

Understandable, from what he remembers of Vince he is sure the man is never awake before nine--ten even--let alone at barely six am. 

“You’ve got more imagination than will to look after yourself, don’t you?” Howard grumbles, still asleep for the most part. The words blend and slur adorably with his lingering exhaustion. He hasn’t even sat up yet, as if his body hasn’t properly started. 

This sleep rumpled mumbling is exactly what convinced Jones that Howard has no idea how close to the mark he is with that assessment. “I can sleep when I run out of things to be doing.” He bites back playfully. 

Across the room, with a yawn, Howard is  _ finally _ pressing himself into a seated position. Though, he pauses, delivering a heavy frown over at the younger doppelganger. “Do you?” He asks, all gentle concern. “Do you sleep?” 

Jones swallows thickly, directs his gaze back to the half formed musical notes on the page; for all the world he tries to shrug off Howard’s question with innocent sounding answers. “Of course! Yeah, no, I--” 

“Jones…” Somewhere between him looking away and now glancing back up. Howard’s sleepiness had dropped from his face; he’s alert and  _ worried.  _ “You’ve been here three nights and I can account for five or six hours of you actually sleeping. If that.” 

It’s too much. Too close. Too caring. Jones doesn’t do well when people try to care about him, his whole crumbling relationship with Dan was evidence of that. Yet, he can’t find it in himself to run away like he had last night. Howard’s eyes won’t let him. They’re pinning him down with a sense of  _ affection _ that Jones has spent too long looking for in a face identical to this one. He doesn’t want to waste this.

“I… I’ve never been able to sleep. Not since I was young.” Dan didn’t get this conversation until years into their friendship, and even then it was after a hefty bout of bullying answers from Jones. But Howard is nodding at him, encouraging, and he just keeps talking. “I get.. Uh. They’re kind of like nightmares from...” From things he isn’t ready to talk about with Howard. “So I don’t sleep. Not if I can help it.” 

Coffee hadn’t just been a replacement addiction, it had been a way of self medicating for his permanent exhaustion problem. 

“Can’t the doctors--” 

“I don’t want to take anything.” 

It’s at this exact moment Howard decides to magically become good at reading the subtext--though Jones supposes he’s always been a good conversationalist when it wasn’t about himself, a lot like Jones--and he retreats from this particular interrogation route. It’s a tactic Jones recognises easily. Back off now with the hope that re-starting the chat later will yield more results. 

He’s waiting for Jones’ guard to be down. Howard shouldn’t hold his breath, Jones doesn’t know  _ how  _ to be unguarded. 

“What are you writing anyway?” The older man asks instead, finally sliding free of his bed and moving to the wardrobe in order to start searching for some clothes for the day. Despite being up and about, he still moves with obvious lethargy. Jones has to wonder if Howard knows the meaning of the words  _ lie-in _ . 

“Just bits for me to work on when I get home.” Jones’ fingers twirl the forgotten pen in one hand. The other drumming against the page.

Howard peeks a glance at him. “I was wondering…” There’s no need to finish the sentence, Jones already knows what Howard means. 

“Tomorrow morning.” He answers. “Somethin’ about a Sunday just feels right. We haven’t decided how or…  _ where _ or anythin’. I’ll probably have to text him later.” 

Howard turns back to his clothes and gives a half-chuckle. “If he doesn’t text you first, for an unorganised bloke he likes to know when he’s expected to show up fashionably late.” 

Which sounds exactly like Vince, to be honest. “Do you think you’re ready to see him again?” 

“I don’t know.” Howard selects some corduroy trousers after barely a minute's consideration. Closely following that is a loud patterned shirt and a brown (nutmeg?) cardigan. Jones just observes but makes no move to dress. He’s content to lounge about the bed; comfy in the pyjamas he’d stolen from Vince. “I’m not angry at him, I don’t think.” 

“So what are you?” 

Howard shrugs out of his pyjama shirt, reaches for his chosen daywear and pulls it over his shoulders. “Confused, mostly.” 

Which is a painfully understandable statement. Jones is very much in the same boat and he was involved in the plan from the moment of its conception. A plan that had left all four of them in the same state of limbo. Who knew how each individual relationship was going to fare once everything went back to normal; and that was on the expectation that normal was possible anymore. There was always a chance this could have irreversibly damaged any connections they had. 

Jones doesn’t know if he’s more excited to see Dan again or terrified of what would await him. 

Hell. As far as he knows, Dan doesn’t yet know about the switch. When he meets with Vince tomorrow to swap back, he might still be none the wiser.

As Jones thinks, Howard has finished buttoning his shirt, and then--seemingly without thinking--reaches for his pyjama bottoms. The act of Jones hastily clapping his hands over his eyes is the only thing that reminds him that, for all intent and purposes, Jones is a  _ stranger _ . 

Jones hears the man sputter several, “Sorry! God, I forgot we just--” 

“Hurry up and get dressed you prick.” Jones scolds playfully, and thankfully, the sound of shuffling fabric indicates he is doing just that. “Done?” 

“Done.” 

Jones uncovers his eyes to the sight of an adorably flushed Howard. “Howard it’s fine,” He automatically comforts. “Though… is it normal for you to just take your clothes off while Vince is in the room? Cause I feel like that’s something we should talk about if so.” 

For that comment, he gets a half-arsed glare. “It isn’t like  _ that _ we-- It’s just… there’s not a lot left to be shy about when you’ve known each other as long as we have.” 

“I get that.” Which isn’t entirely a lie. Jones hasn’t known Dan even half as long as Howard and Vince have been in one another's company but he still understands the connection one can find in the right type of person. Souls harmonise and bare bodies don’t matter because the  _ ease  _ you find in them is enough. 

Compatible to the point that whatever form your existence takes--however messy, raw, naked it may be--it’s accepted by the other. 

And God knows he and Dan had seen each other in all kinds of states. 

Howard stills for a moment. Jones can see the cogs turning behind those inquisitive eyes. He seems the exact second Howard mentally comes to the conclusio of  _ ‘fuck it, might as well’ _ and asks, “Tell me more about the man Vince is with…” And Jones doesn’t even get the chance to utter excuses and apologies because Howard is for once being  _ firm _ with him. “You already told me he’s there doing  _ this  _ with him so… so are you-- is he your--?” 

The way one man can be such a contradiction of awkward but headstrong is incredible. It magically puts Jones at complete ease, because he is so used to not telling his story out of fear. Out of distrust. Really, how could anyone look at this bumbling mess of a man and feel threatened. 

“No, he’s not my boyfriend.” Jones answers for him, and Howard sags with the relief of being understood. “He’s just a friend of mine in a little bit of trouble, who I didn’t know how to help.” 

Perhaps it's a bit too serious for what Howard is used to, because he immediately falls back on the tactic of humour and mutters. “And you sent Vince in?” 

Snickering, Jones replies. “Yeah it’s a decision I have regretted every moment since I made it.” 

“Well,” Howard stalls; he takes a step forward but then seems to rethink his decision. He’s left hovering in the middle of the room, fingers twisting together. Awkward. Bashful. “He is helpful. In his own way.” 

“No offence but I’m still a little worried,” Jones casts his gaze back down to the notebook in his lap just to avoid having to meet Howard’s eye. “I don’t think he’d ever do anything to hurt anyone just… Dan’s a bit different to you. Not sure how he’s gonna handle him.” 

It’s with unwavering confidence Howard announces, “Vince is a people person, he can handle anyone.” 

“If you say so.” 

“I do.” And if nothing else about this had convinced him of Howard’s unending loyalty to his best friend, then this would be it. The man couldn’t say a bad word even when Jones was  _ offering _ the opportunity. All this bickering and animosity between them recently was just a mask for a different issue; he was sure of it. 

It was another reason for them not to say what they really meant.

Maybe Howard knows it too, because as Jones lifts his head--defiantly meeting his gaze and opening his mouth to ask him exactly what he sees Vince as in his life--Howard is cutting the thought off. “Anyway, breakfast?” 

Food as a distraction. “Give me five minutes, then.” 

***

Thankfully, Howard does not attempt to remain in the room while Jones dresses. It had been a genuine concern that the absolute lump of a man would think it perfectly okay to hover and continue conversation as Jones bared himself. But he doesn’t. Rather he exits the room with the excuse of brushing his teeth and washing up, leaving Jones to go through his own morning routine in peace. 

A morning routine that consists of hovering in front of Vince’s wardrobe with a strange sense of displacement. At most, it had been three days of Jones wearing clothes outside of his comfort zone, and yet he had discovered a wonderful sense of fondness for it. The jumpsuits and dresses and lovely soft blouses had begun to grow on him. Despite the fact he needn’t wear them anymore, Jones still finds he perhaps  _ wants  _ to. There are t-shirts he can pull on. Jeans, even, but the fact of the matter is some of Vince’s clothes he _ likes _ . 

But, he has to keep a strict difference in place for Howard. If he starts blurring the lines things may only get more confusing for them both. 

So what he decides on is some ripped, paint stained jeans, and a pink shirt with the sleeves cut off. Because at least like this he would be rather obviously  _ not  _ Vince. He highly doubts Vince would be seen dead in an outfit like this one unless it was certain no one was going to see him that day. 

When he ventures out of the room, Howard vacates the bathroom, and Jones slides in. He sets his chosen clothes on the side and hops into the shower. It’s the most domestic Jones has ever felt. And when he slides free, dresses, and ventures into the kitchen to smell something cooking, he realises just how used to this domesticity he’s gotten. Weird how a few days is enough to get you into a kind of routine with someone.

“I would have offered to make breakfast but then I remembered I can’t cook.” Jones utters, sliding into an abandoned chair by the table. Whatever Howard is making requires a mixing bowl, and the northern man tosses him a smile over his shoulder. 

“I figured you wouldn’t. There’s a lot that’s similar about you two and the need to look after yourselves is up there.” Howard’s voice is a bit distracted, obviously much more focused on the food he is making. “Plus you did buy us dinner last night.” 

Jones shrugs. “An apology for going through all of this, I suppose.” Howard stills. Jones watches the tense line of his shoulders. The shift of his shoulders as thoughts pass over him in visible waves. “Felt like I owed you one.” 

“I don’t need an apology from you, Jones. Maybe not even from Vince but… but a conversation would be nice.” Howard turns his head enough to smile timidly at him, and Jones mirrors the older man’s encouraging nod from the bedroom. “The things you’ve said I… I don’t believe he’d do this if he thought it would hurt me. I think he genuinely believed he was helping.” 

“He did.” Jones reassures. “Howard, I’ve never heard someone so… Small. When he said you weren’t getting along? He’d just spent  _ hours  _ telling me every little thing about his life here with you and he just... “ 

“Yeah, I know.” Howard doesn’t need the explanation it seems. He already understands. 

It’s at this point he goes back to his cooking. Whether through a sense of duty to keep them fed or a crushing feeling of shame over what his relationship with Vince had become, it’s unclear. Jones watches him pour what appears to be batter into a frying pan. Pancakes then. They exist in content silence. Howard focuses on his cooking and Jones is fascinated watching him.

He’d only ever seen the mirror of this face cook once. Because Dan can actually cook, not to the level Howard can it seems, but enough to feed himself. The problem with Dan was his motivation rarely climbed high enough to complete the bare minimum of self-care tasks, thus driving himself to prepare a full meal was asking a bit much. Howard thrived on it though, but Jones thinks that might be something to do with his intense need for control over things. 

Maybe that’s why he seemed insistent on doing it at every opportunity. Especially since Jones had arrived. If he couldn’t control Vince, nore his feelings for him, then he could at least control what the man ate. 

Hell, Jones might have just discovered why Howard took such pleasure in being the care taker in their relationship. 

Even worse, he might have just discovered why his own sense of responsibility ran rampant around Dan. Fuck. 

“So you don’t cook and you don’t sleep,” Howard teases gently, with impeccable timing. “How do you live?” 

It’s a personal question but it’s asked with enough humour and at exactly the right time in Jones’ thought process that he finds he has no trouble at all answering it. “A lot of caffeine.” 

Another one of those knowing smiles. “That explains why you always have tea in your hand.” 

“Hmm, not sure Vince would ever get away with drinking a coffee in your presence.” Jones snickers at the look of utter  _ horror  _ that inspires on Howard’s face. “Not that you even  _ own  _ coffee. I did look.” 

“Of  _ course  _ we don’t keep coffee here, are you insane?” As he speaks, perfectly golden pancakes are plated. The hob is turned off the heat and Howard moves across the kitchen to join him at the table. “Vince is bad enough on sugar do you really think any of us would be daft enough to expose him to coffee?” 

There’s no attempt made to conceal his amusement as Howard slides into his seat. Not even a morsel of effort as he admits, “I won’t lie to you, there’s a real chance he’ll have started drinking it while pretending to be me.” 

“He's going to come back with new annoying habits isn’t he?” Howard sighs in exasperation. “God what kind of lunatic are you, what exactly should I prepare myself for?” 

“Well… depending on how deep into character he goes there’s a good chance he’ll be um…” And Jones had never been in an environment that made him so ashamed of his vices. But Howard felt like the judgmental type. “Maybe smoking?” 

Understanding crosses Howard’s face. “No wonder you’re so twitchy.” 

It’s not exactly a jibe, but it’s a humorous attempt at one. Jones finds himself snickering. “This has certainly been a good attempt at making me quit, let’s put it that way.” 

Even as they settle into silence to start eating, it’s not  _ real  _ silence. It feels forced. It’s charged. Electric with Howard’s wonderings. Jones doesn’t shy away from them either, in between bites of his food (which is pretty damn good) he’ll sporadically peer up at the older man and silently dare him to put voice to whatever he’s thinking. 

And finally, Howard breaks. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

He’s expecting to be told no. The slight pinch to Howard’s eyes, already waiting to flinch. The tense muscles. Likely because the last time he’d asked Jones had fled the room. Granted, they had shared a small snippet of conversation this morning, but Howard knew better than to assume that meant walls had completely come down. Howard was smarter than that--he knew a terrified person who struggled to open up when he saw one. After all, it takes one to know one. 

But Jones finds his automatic denial fading in the face of his nervousness. Howard wasn’t really a man he should be scared of. Jones’ trust issues ran deep but… well, Howard had a familiar face and a welcoming aura that (in the nicest way possible) reminded Jones of his Grandmother before she died. A fierce woman, but one who would never see anyone left without care. 

“Okay.” He says, and the way Howard’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline convey his surprise enough. “Suppose I owe it to you.” 

And then it’s the look of utter excitement coupled with frantic thinking. Jones imagines Howard is doing his best to prioritise his questions lest he lose out on an opportunity to learn something. 

“Has it been hard, being him the past few days?” And if that question shocks him then the following statement ruins him even more. “Just because… I don’t think you’re that alike at all are you?” 

It’s a peek into Howard’s brain really. That the first thing he decides to do upon being given a free pass to interrogate his flatmates double is to… well, play spot the difference. In some ways, it’s the most comforting thing he could have done because that’s the first thing Jones did too. He had stood opposite a walking manifestation of his reflection and tried desperately to list the ways they  _ didn’t  _ match. It’s one more confirmation that while he shares Vince’s face, his personality resonates more with Howard. 

Because when the similarity scares you, what else would you do but remind yourself there’s differences. 

“We’re really different.” Jones replies, carefully, so not to accidentally offend Vince or the man in love with him. “Not to say that’s a bad thing, I think he’s great, but I’m just… cut from different cloth I think.” 

Howard at least agrees with this analogy. “Trust me whatever cloth Vince is cut from there was none left to make anyone else he’s too--” 

“Unique.” 

“Exactly.” 

While he understands the sentiment Howard is going for--Vince being one of a kind and all-- Jones is shaking his head adamantly because there’s an outsider's perspective he simply isn’t seeing A perspective Jones can give him. 

“No, I think there was some left. Enough scraps to make you.” It’s a bit on the nose, Howard chokes on his pancake in response. Jones just continues. “Maybe not a whole you, but bits of you. The rest is probably Hawaiian shirts and corduroy.” 

Howard still says nothing. 

“Just… you know from someone who is seeing it from the outside. Seems like you sort of… patch each other up when you get torn so--” He clears his throat, awkward under Howard’s penetrating gaze. “Kind of made from each others cloth, right?” Silence. “Sorry I’m no good at the metaphors, that’s more Dan’s thing to be honest.” 

“No it’s..” A pause. A heavy pregnant pause. “I think I know what you mean.” 

Which is definitely not a denial of what Jones is insinuating. Specifically;  _ you might just be soulmates you hopeless twat.  _

“But you’re deflecting.” Howard says then, and Jones could laugh. 

Frankly, it’s just one big circle of them deflecting. Jones was more than happy to spend forever talking around cloth metaphors if it meant not exploring his own life further. And now, Howard wanted to avoid the cloth metaphor because it made too much sense, so he was pushing for more about Jones’ life. Fucking idiots. 

“I don’t like that you do that.” Jones mutters petulantly. “When I was Vince you had no backbone and now look at you.” 

“Another difference to add to the list then.” The sarcastic reply comes. 

“What, that you’re not as scared of me?” Jones rolls his eyes, and then for good measure he sticks his tongue out too. Petulant, but necessary. He’s shoveling the last of his food into his mouth and washing it down with tea before he circles back to the original question. Mostly so he can articulate his answers properly. “It was a little hard. I’m not used to the way he lives his life, but I suppose it wasn’t terrible either.” 

“So you’re not like him then?” Howard asks in between bites. “Social butterfly, Prince of Camden, parties every other night?” 

“No, the opposite to be honest.” Jones’ fingers are drumming restlessly against the surface of the table. “I like my house, there are no people there. Well, no one but Dan but he’s…. He’s different.” 

Howard doesn’t have to express with words how much he relates to that sentiment. There’s evidence enough in the tiny twitch of his lips; amused. But he’s not finished in his inquiries either. “But, you said you were a DJ? Is that not difficult to do without being a little…” Howard struggles for the word but Jones knows what he means. 

Extroverted. 

“I suppose that’s where me and Vince are  _ a bit _ the same.” Fidgety fingers stop, instead, with an elbow resting on the table, Jones brings his thumb to his mouth. Explains the rest of his personal tendencies around where he chews on his cuticles. “I’ve seen into his wardrobe. Never seen personalities hung up like outfits before but he’s really like that, hm?” 

Howard gives a snort of amusement and a nod. “You’ve no idea.” 

“That’s sorta what I do for work. I play someone else, someone I think I’d quite like to be--might have been if things had gone a little differently. I… I just pretend. I make music and I take it out four or five nights a week and people enjoy it; sometimes I’ll mingle afterwards because no one’s going to know me if I don’t network.” A harsh reality but one Jones had gotten used to years ago, the reminder of it still makes Howard wince though. Speaking to the older man’s likely disastrous experience with ‘networking’ for his own band. “So I plaster on smile and I talk to people who probably won’t remember my name in two weeks time but I have to do it. What I do is too important to me to not do it.” 

It isn’t until he pauses to take a breath he realises how  _ honest  _ he just was. His hands are trembling. Honestly. He hadn’t meant to get that real but once he had started it seemed to just fall from him. Howard is looking at him, not with sympathy, but with admiration. Awe. Like he’s recognising the struggle of being open. 

Lamely, Jones finishes, “So I’m a bit like Vince I suppose, in that respect at least.” 

He’s getting ready to be bombarded with more questions. It usually happens like this. He reveals a little too much, gets a little too personal, and people think that the door he has unlocked on his own terms needs to be yanked wide open. Jones doesn’t mean to make himself an enigma, but he unintentionally has and it means people’s curiosity gets the better of them. Now he waits, patiently, for Howard to leap on this like a rabid dog on a hare. 

He doesn’t though. He gives one decisive nod, a declaration of his understanding, and then he’s clearing dishes away. 

It’s almost… disappointing? Jones still has no desire to delve any deeper into his tragic backstory (he could be self aware too) or anything of the sort, but for a second there, a brief moment, well… he’s rather enjoyed being listened to. The way Howard had devoted such attention to him. Such care, it was the kind of open interest he wished Dan would show him more often. Maybe he’d liked it. Just a bit. 

Howard’s gone just long enough for Jones’ whiplash to subside and then he’s back again to polish off his cup of tea. “So what are you planning on doing today?” The man asks. 

It’s a pretty clear out from not only the conversation at hand but also any further interaction with Howard should Jones want it. But, to his own credit, Jones doesn’t run nearly as far from the conversation as he  _ could.  _ “Well, I was going to spend it with you. If that’s okay?” 

The adorable way Howard chokes on his tea is worth it. 

***

It just so happens that Howard’s Saturdays are usually spent mostly alone. 

Unsurprising, and yet still incredibly sad. According to him, Vince will normally not roll out of bed until at least noon and even then might have other predetermined plans that remove him firmly from Howard’s orbit. 

“At least, that’s what it’s like these days.” The man himself sighs, melancholy. 

“Hasn’t always been like that?” Jones prods carefully. Though, he honestly could have predicted that answer. The Vince he had met seemed to hold nothing but desire for spending time with Howard. This avoidance of him was surely a recent development stemming directly from a perceived betrayal. 

Like he suspected, Howard shoots him a look that says the answer should be obvious. He makes no attempt to elaborate further. 

Jones is left to hover silently over the older man’s shoulder as he continues to rummage through his wardrobe. Apparently what Howard did on his lonely Saturday morning’s these days was take walks. The suggestion of which had excited Jones to no end. He wasn’t exactly the type to go stir crazy--he was more likely to go crazy being away from his house for too long than being trapped in it--but fresh air partnered with Howard’s company did sound to be a refreshing way to spend his day. 

Of course, the only problem with this plan is that it’s currently British Autumn time, which means it’s cold outside. And as it turns out, Vince doesn’t think winter coats are all that fashionable. The closest they can seek out that can be called ‘outerwear’ is a trim satin jacket. Jones thinks it’s utterly bonkers, until Howard reminds him that Vince would never go through all the effort of getting dressed just to cover it in a coat. He’d sooner freeze. 

_ Vince will always choose the aesthetic over his own comfort _ , Howard had said. 

It’s precisely how Jones finds himself accepting a large winter coat from Howard, one he pulls free from his wardrobe and hands over with a little smile. Honestly, Jones is swimming in it. It’s pretty big on him, but that doesn’t phase him much. It especially doesn’t phase him that ‘just to be safe’ Howard also passes him a scarf to tuck around his neck. 

If he was going to be at all honest with himself, Jones couldn’t be happier with these clothing developments. It’s one of the only things that reminds him of home at the minute, being able to wrap himself up in the larger clothes of a friend. Much like he would with Dan’s clothes when he was feeling down. It was a habit that had developed completely by accident; Jones too sleep deprived and high on caffeine to properly differentiate between the scraps of fabric all heaped on the floor. He’d pulled on one of Dan's large shirts over his head and found that it offered him more comfort than anything else had been able to. 

Dan hadn't minded either. The opposite, had started offering him clothes any time he perceived Jones to be in need of them--pretty much as close as Jones got to being asked if he was okay. 

Wearing Howard’s clothes? It’s pretty genius. 

What does bother him is the fact he is still being forced to wear Vince’s boots. 

“Why doesn’t he own any trainers,” Jones snaps, perhaps a little irritated, as they clomp down the stairs and out onto the street. “It’s all boots, don’t his feet hurt?” 

“Oh constantly.” Howard replies easily. Like the true gent he is, he holds the door wide for Jones, stopping only briefly to lock up behind them before leading them on their way. “But like I said. Looks over comfort.” 

“But  _ why _ I mean,” As he talks, Jones kicks his feet against the ground. “You can get nice shoes without the heel I don’t get it.” 

Howard features are painted with fondness. “I think he’s always been bothered by his height.” 

“We’re not that short.” Jones gripes. “There’s nothing wrong with our height.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your--nor Vince’s--natural hair colour, and yet you both still choose to dye it.” Howard’s delivery is surprisingly firm, and when Jones whips his head up he is met with the taller man’s hard-set features. “What people do to make their perception of themselves a comfortable one isn’t anyone’s business but their own.” 

And Jones feels his insides turn to ice. He hadn't even meant anything by it. There was no ill will in his intentions but Howard even for a second thought that’s what he had meant and he had transformed into something much tougher than what Jones had been privy to thus far. He was getting defensive over Vince’s life choices. Intensely so. 

He’s seen a side to this relationship that up until now he hadn’t expected to exist. That being that Howard is  _ viciously  _ protective of his best friend in the right circumstances. 

“I didn’t mean nothing by it, Howard.” They haven’t stopped walking the entire duration of this discussion, and when Howard makes no move to acknowledge Jones’ plea of innocence, he stops dead in his tracks. Forcing Howard to also stop moving. “Howard.” 

“No, I know.” The way Howard sighs it is almost reluctant, like he doesn’t want to admit he knows Jones was completely innocuous in his observations. “I know you didn’t I just… Sorry.” 

It’s not an explanation, but it’s enough. Jones gives one firm nod of his head before rejoining Howard’s side. They continue walking. 

“Is that your job then?” Jones inquires after a beat, lighthearted curiosity. “Knight in shining armor? Facing off anyone who wrongs your fair maiden.” 

This, at least, inspires a chuckle. “Well, I am a man of action.” He boasts. But Jones thinks he can detect a hint of self-deprecation. “Though I think if either of us were being completely honest I’m less the knight and more the damsel. That’s our bit.” 

It’s another one of those startlingly self-aware comments that leaves Jones’ head spinning. 

“You know sometimes you talk like you’re a character in a book.” 

“Or a TV show.” Howard points out. 

Baffled isn’t the correct word, but there’s no chance for Jones to question it any further. Howard is cutting in with a deflection disguised as a question. “When you screamed at Bollo the other day--” And Jones was not thankful for that reminder. “Was that because Vince didn’t warn you?” 

It’s a completely pointless question; he’s sure Howard already knows the answer. But by asking it he’s perhaps revealed more than he intended to. Like which topics are solidly off limits for Jones to mention--his penchant for viewing himself as a player in a universal game being one of them. 

“He did actually.” Jones replies, they pass a stack of auburn coloured leaves and he can’t help but kick his feet at it. “But I did think he was using metaphors or something. Didn’t think he meant an actual gorilla.” 

This makes Howard chuckle. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Bollo, he’s mostly harmless.” 

“Mostly?” 

“Completely harmless.” Howard corrects himself, turning his head to squint down at Jones in the bright autumn sun. “Unless you pose a threat to Vince.” 

Jones isn’t entirely sure why that information comes as a surprise to him. This fabricated script the pair of them seem to live by follows the same throughline. Vince wins, Howard loses. 

Howard had literally told him as much. 

“Does it not bother you?” Jones finds himself not asking the question, but rather, demanding it. “That everything just works for him all the time and not for you?” 

It takes a moment for the answer to come, not because Howard is reluctant to answer. Mostly because they have to divert from conversation long enough to cross a road; Jones knows this part of London well enough to know they’re heading for Hampstead Heath. Howard uses his hand on the small of Jones’ back as he urges himse across a Zebra Crossing and past a bustling family. 

The forced respite from talking must give Howard enough time to think about his answers, because by the time they approach the open space of the park he’s speaking levelly. “It used to.” Howard confesses shyly. “Every week I found myself getting into trouble. Vince scraping by on naive charm and still somehow always being on top? It was endlessly irritating.” 

“I can imagine.” Jones sympathises greatly. He can’t say he’s ever experienced anything like it, but he can understand what it’s like to feel like you’re on the losing side day after day. Difference being he had done something about it. “Why not do anything about it, then?” 

Howard turns his face down to him, one eyebrow arched, bitter smirk twisting his features. It screams resignation. The face of a man who almost certainly tried to change it. Weekly. To no success. 

Despite this acceptance of his fate though, underneath the worn lines of Howard’s decades worth of bad luck, there’s a hint of contentment. The sparkle of happiness in Howard’s small brown eyes. Not just resigned but comfortable. 

“The older I got the more I realised that people have certain parts to play in life and that’s fine. It stopped bothering me as much.” Jones would vehemently disagree with that statement, he had taken his role and kicked it back in the face of society thank you very much. But who was he to dictate Howard’s happiness. “And it isn’t all bad, at least if I’m losing then Vince is winning.” 

It’s sickeningly sweet. Jones says as much out loud. Wrinkles his nose in mock distaste as he announces, “God could you be any more of a hopeless romantic.” 

Sputtering, Howard flushes pink. His steps falter. He’s trying to think of a counter argument. No doubt years of denying his attachment to Vince makes the habit hard to break.  _ No I’m not, it’s not like that. Not at all.  _ But after a second, Jones patiently watching him, waiting for the denial, Howard stops trying. 

The man just sighs at him, though his blush lingers. “I’m just speaking from experience. Vince has been dealt a bad hand approximately once in our entire friendship and I thought he was dying. He isn’t built for sadness so… well it’s just easier for everyone if his best friend can handle it for him.” 

This fact does nothing but twist Jones’ insides with worry for his double. Because Vince wasn’t playing Vince right now, he was playing Jones… And Jones had his fair share of bad dealings. 

“He’s lucky to have you.” The sincerity might just give away too much of his own predicament he thinks. The longing for someone to step up like Howard has been stepping up for Vince. Is it a bit of a selfish desire? Perhaps, but if Vince can be selfish enough to expect Howard bear the brunt of the negativity in their partnership then is it really so selfish for Jones to want to share it equally with Dan? 

Perhaps. But he doesn’t quite care. 

And by some miracle, he thinks maybe Howard can read his mind. Because the man takes a rather brave step and reaches out with one hand. Presses a comforting hand in between his shoulder blades. Grounds him from the flighty feeling his own guilt provides him. 

“Let’s sit for a while.” Howard suggests. 

Sounds like a brilliant idea to Jones. 

***

Despite there being a chill to the air, the heath isn’t as empty as one might imagine. 

There’s joggers zipping past them and dogs barking in the distance. Couples walk hand in hand and romanticise the changing colours of the season as they walk. At least, though, it is not busy. Jones very rarely walks for pleasure, and even rarer will he come to somewhere like Hampstead Heath to do it, but he does remember one vivid occasion after the window. Dan had needed the exercise after his cast had come off and Jones was about ready to climb the walls he’d been that bored indoors. So they’d walked here.

One of the warmest days of the year and they’d both been miserable for it the whole time. Sweaty and uncomfortable and irritated by the sheer amount of people--happy people--around them. 

Jones remembers how they’d managed to laugh for the first time in weeks over their shared distaste for other humans. 

The energy is different this time of year and with Howard at his side. They settle onto the first empty park bench they can find and rather than feel antsy about being in the outside world, watched by strangers, Jones feels calm. Well, as calm as you can be under these very specific circumstances. 

They had walked in companionable silence to their destination after a brief chat about the roles one may or may not play in their life. Which isn’t a bad thing. As strange as it is for Howard to be quiet for a change, it isn’t an awkward silence. More contemplative.

But it only lasts as long as it takes them to settle at one another's sides. At which point Jones feels the comfort of a natural environment and believes it might just be time to get the last of his answers for Vince. “Vince said you two met when you were kids?” He says. 

The mention of the missing half apparently relieves and stresses Howard in equal measure. His shoulders stiffen, but his features brighten with a smile. “I took pity on him,” He boasts, and Jones has to bite his tongue to not point out that Vince told the tale very differently. “He was new at school and very shy.” 

“Oh really?” Jones says, as sincere as he can around his smirk. 

Howard nods his head; and the vulnerability of earlier discussion is once again hidden beneath a mask of false grandeur. “Wouldn’t stop following me around, the poor lamb.” The memory must be a fond one, Howard’s grinning from ear to ear. “So I told him I would be his friend.” 

“And that was that, you’ve been best mates ever since?” 

“Pretty much.” 

“Wow, you two must have been through a lot together then, even before all this business kicked off.” Jones can’t imagine knowing anyone that long. Most of the people in his life entered and left again in a startlingly short space of time.Even the ones related to him by blood. So Far, Dan was holding the world record for length of relationship held. “And you’ve never fallen out before?” 

This, for whatever reason, amuses Howard. “We fall out all the time.” He insists. “He can be a right bitch if things don’t go his way, and I-- _ maybe-- _ Sometimes get a little wound up over the insignificant things. Trust me, we bicker like George and Mildred… but, they’re not real fights. Not usually.” 

“Until Denmark?” 

Howard doesn’t have to agree. He exhales a little sharply, all the air rushing from his lungs at the mention of a pivotal in their relationship history. He doesn’t seem at all shocked that this is where Jones was leading the discussion, though. Rightly, he should have known this was coming, in all of their sharing, this was the one topic Jones had yet to hear Howard’s side of. He had heard him out about the island and the shop and the band and the party. But the linchpin in this whole operation was Denmark. 

Jones doesn’t even need to explicitly ask him for the story, Howard’s already sensing this is where it’s going. “If you want to hear it you’re going to have to promise me one thing.” 

And Jones is so enticed by how strong Howard’s character is since discovering he wasn’t Vince, that he simply agrees. “Okay.” 

“If I do what you want and tell you about Denmark so you can add more judgement to your perception of my relationship with Vince…” Howard takes a deep breath. “Then I think it’s only fair I get to ask you some questions about you too.” 

It is fair. Perfectly so. 

Doesn’t stop Jones’ heart beating like a jackhammer. 

Howard must sense the terror because he elaborates. “If you really don’t want to tell me what I want to know, then fine, but you have to let me  _ ask _ .”

With a moment more of consideration, Jones eventually nods. “Okay. Deal.” 

Howard steels himself. He turns his body enough that he is angled towards Jones’ smaller frame; in his lap, those large hands remain still--as still as they can be while trembling slightly--and his chest rises and falls with deep breaths intended to calm. 

“I didn’t abandon him like I’m sure he told you I did.” Is what Howard leads with, which in itself is an interesting starting point. Says a lot about how he thinks Vince is perceiving him in this whole tale. “At least I never meant to. In the grand scheme of things, I had thought--hoped--that if I went Vince wouldn’t be too far behind. That’s how it’s always been with us, you see, never one without the other.” 

Again, it's one of those strangely self aware comments Howard makes, as if he is not only living his life but playing a role perfectly designed for him. As if they both were. 

“But… well, that didn’t happen.” Another sigh. Howard won’t look at him, he’s watching joggers pass by and dog walkers try to keep control of excitable pups. “I popped in to tell him I was leaving, and there he was getting ready to go on stage with some other band and insisting he’d get famous with them so rather than asking him to come I just… didn’t. I told him I was going hoping he’d I don't know… care?” 

A classic bid for attention. The kind perhaps Howard wasn’t used to making in this particular relationship dynamic, but had done out of pure desperation for a failing relationship. Jones shuffles himself a little bit closer, presses their knees together in support. 

“I think I realised he’d stopped caring.” Howard forces the words out. They’re rough like sandpaper. “And I suppose I took a leaf from his book. When you feel like there isn’t enough attention on you, make them pay attention.” 

Jones can understand that. Howard didn't seem the type to naturally demand the attention be on him, but he had been pushed to drastic measures. Perhaps a lot like Jones had been in deciding to take part in this plot with Vince. Because he too had reached a point where he wasn’t entirely sure how to get Dan to take notice of him and so he’d done something crazy. 

He doesn’t say anything though, Howard has his own process and he was going to leave him to it. 

“He didn’t even say goodbye the morning I left.” Howard mutters, so sad it breaks Jones' heart.

Jones can’t help but remember Vince muttering sadly in his bedroom.  _ Didn’t even say a proper goodbye. _

The pair of utter pricks were just talking past each other. 

Howard peers over at him like he’s done talking but Jones knows there’s more to this tale yet. He settles for ten seconds of silence before he’s prying further. “And what about the trip? How was it? And when you came back?” 

Deep in the recesses of his mind he knows the more questions he asks the more he’s going to have to answer later. When Howard flips this back on him. But he needs answers too, if not just because making Howard say it out loud might make him acknowledge his own story. 

Howard takes a breath. He contemplates, for a moment Jones thinks he’s going to get some blunt answer like he had in the shop yesterday. Full of self blame without analysing the situation.  _ I hurt him.  _ And that’s that. 

But when Howard speaks there’s actually thought to it. 

“I was miserable out there.” He says. “And not for any other reason than I was lonely. I’m not daft, and neither is Vince, we know we can be a little…” 

“Co-dependent?” 

“Yes. But we’ve never really had anyone but each other.” Howard shrugs one shoulder. “Without him there, nothing made me happy. So I came back and he was… angry. Rightfully angry but he never talked about it either so we just carried on. What else was there to do?” 

“Have a conversation like adults?” 

And Howard doesn’t even know his situation that well. He doesn’t know about Dan’s struggle to let him in and how Jones himself doesn’t talk about it either-- rather just lets him push him away and gets annoyed about it. But there’s a look in his eyes that says he already knows Jones is being a hypocrite. 

“It’s never that easy.” Howard says, and Jones knows it’s true. He sighs, Howard looks back out over the Heath. “I agreed with you yesterday, I think we need to talk. Vince is holding onto his anger and I’m holding on to… something. If we don’t deal with it soon I’m not sure we’ll be able to come back from it.” 

It’s refreshing for him to no longer be running from this reality. Jones does have to wonder why there’s such a split between Howard with Vince and Howard with Jones. Was Howard ever this forthright and confident around Vince? Had he ever been firm and bold, the leader of their duo without a doubt. Had he simply lost his back bone somewhere between leaving for Denmark and now. Because ever since coming out of this ruse, Howard has been able to address him with clarity and self-reflection no problem. 

So why couldn’t he do it with his best friend of over fifteen years. 

“Does that answer your questions?” Howard mutters, almost petulant, and Jones has a feeling it has a lot to do with the shameful downcast of his eyes and the vulnerable tint to his features. 

“I may ask questions Howard, but I don’t ask them just to know.” Jones insists. “I mean, yeah, I am curious about you and Vince and your relationship but… I ask because I think no one  _ has  _ before. Sometimes you need to say things out loud to properly wrap your head around them, for them to feel real.” 

Howard is just staring at him. 

“So how do you feel?” 

The response is instantaneous. “Lighter.” 

Jones smiles at him, a real, big grin of a smile. “Then you’ve answered all my questions.” He stands, reaches his hand out automatically, like he would with Dan. But strangely, before he can think to take it back, Howard latches on to it and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. He drops the contact soon after though but still, it’s a step in the right direction. “Come on Howard, lets get home, I’m freezing my tits off.” 

***

“Who taught you to play piano?” 

They’re barely through the door. Howard had naturally entered first, making a beeline for the coat pegs to pull off his own outerwear; but Jones had barely clomped up the stairs on his unsteady heels than the question is being thrown at him. He’s left frozen at the top step just gaping at him. Unsure how to proceed. 

This must be what Howard feels like when he freezes.

Their walk home had been pleasant, but mostly quiet. Other than the occasional snippet of everyday chatter. The easy ‘who’s your favourite jazz singer’ or ‘what kind of things do you watch on tv?’ felt polite but it wasn’t particularly meaningful conversation but it was a welcome respite from the endless sense of importance weighing down on them. 

It was nice to hear Howard go on a tangent about Charlie Mingus or try and describe the entire plot of Colobos the Crab and know that whatever they were talking about wasn’t going to make or break a relationship. 

Jones had thought maybe he would have forgotten about his request of getting to ask questions in turn. It seems not, and now, here Jones was, facing his greatest fear. 

Being known. 

“Uh…” Time restarts, he peels off the coat and hands it to Howard, the man dutifully hanging it up for him before moving towards the open plan kitchen. It’s likely supposed to give him the illusion of space but Jones finds he wants the opposite. He’s used to close contact as a form of comfort. So he follows Howard, Hovers close by his shoulder. “My grandmother. She taught me when I was little.” 

Howard takes this information on board, adds with a jovial little smile. “My nan was the one who showed me Jazz.” He informs. Which is nice, with Dan it was heavily weighted on the giving side of the chatting, whereas Howard apparently didn’t mind sharing info in return for what Jones was going through. “Every weekend we’d have sunday lunch with Ella Fitzgerald playing.” 

Which is the cutest thing Jones has ever imagined. “No wonder you’ve grown to love it so much.” Jones says. He’s handed a cup of tea, and takes great pleasure in asking. “Does it not bother you, then, having to make the music Vince likes rather than jazz?” 

And when this turned into a caring and sharing session, he has no idea. But this is something he’d never really had with Dan unless the man was drunk. An equal exchange of information. 

“Not really,” Howard shrugs the question off. “I like making music. I did always think I’d be a talented jazz musician but as I grew up I realised that so long as I had fun with what I was doing then maybe the genre didn’t matter so much. Besides, Vince does still let me try things now and then.” 

Jones can understand that. He knows what it’s like to make purely for the enjoyment of it. 

“You never did tell me what music you make.” Howard remembers. “You said you were a DJ?” 

“Yeah, techno music mostly but… well, the stuff I don’t play for work can be anything. I like trying to make music out of things people don’t expect to sound good, you know.” Howard’s scrunched brows says he doesn’t. “It’s hard to explain. Maybe once we go back to normal I can show you.” 

“I’d like that.” Howard says sincerely. 

They migrate back to the sofa, Jones tucks himself up on one corner and Howard settles on the other. “So classical music isn’t a usual one for you then? Just because, you write it well…” 

This is the part where Jones can’t just share surface level facts anymore. Because it isn’t as simple as being able to state exactly why Jones’ musical talents twist and warp into the unexpected. 

This is going to require some sharing. 

“I think--well, it was pretty certain that’s where I was intended to go. I used to play a bunch of instruments but I really liked piano. Probably because I could play it in my grandmother’s study where she could see me.” He gives a weak smile. Voice trembling. Howard just smiles at him encouragingly. “I definitely could have made a career out of it but I…” 

“Lost interest?” Howard tries, though it’s clear he already knows that’s not the case. 

And this is it. Jones thinks of Howard, and his bravery in exploring his own circumstances. He looks into those imploring brown eyes. The familiar face. The shadow of a man who Jones had already told this story too but was fairly sure he had been too drunk to remember it. He confesses everything. 

“She died when I was fifteen.” Jones says. He has to look away, all these years later and it still hurts to see that twist of sympathy on people’s faces.  _ Poor broken boy _ . “So I stopped playing, always thought about starting again but it never  _ felt  _ right.” 

Why it felt right with Howard, in a stranger's home, he had no idea. 

“I’m sorry, Jones.” Howard adds gently. 

Never dealing with sympathy well, Jones brushes him off. “No, don’t be, it was a long time ago.” And of course it’s not fine. No matter how much time passes, you never get over the ache that losing someone you love leaves behind. And Jones knew the feeling far too well. But he doesn’t want the pity. “I just know she’s been watching me this whole time and calling me a daft old tart, though.” He adds, hoping to inject some humour into the situation. 

“She’s probably elated you’re playing again.” Howard points out. 

Which, is exactly the right thing to say. Jones snickers gently. “You’re right.” He pauses a second, then talks some more. Which is a weird feeling. “God she was such a pain in the arse about practicing. Always making me run scales after school and god help me if I fucked up the melody on one of her compositions.” 

“She composed too?” 

“Hmm, that’s where I first took interest I think.” It’s rather crazy how easily he slips into the ease of conversation. It should terrify him, he thinks. Given that he has previously had to be bullied into sharing. But… the difference lay in the person he was sharing with, he thinks. Because this wasn’t how talking with Dan felt. Jones didn’t get the impression he was burdening the other man with his revelations it was… dare he say, fun. “I didn’t live with her until I was eight and I remember walking past her study and hearing her and just… That must be what falling in love feels like. I asked her to teach me immediately.” 

Howard nods along like he understands the feeling completely. 

“That’s how a lot of things happened, actually. I’d see Grandma doing it and I’d want to learn too.” 

“What else did she teach you?” Howard asks. 

“She tried to teach me to bake but that went about as well as you could imagine.” Jones snickered. “French, I was good at french. She moved from Paris to look after me, you see, so having an English grandson was a source of endless amusement for her.” 

Howard pauses, a small grin on his face. “You’re french?” 

“Oui, n'était-ce pas évident.” Jones doesn’t often feel smug. In that instance, he feels smug. Because Howard is staring at him with such an open expression of awe that he can’t quite contain his joy. 

It doesn’t last too long. “Jones just doesn’t sound like a french name.” Howard says once he’s regained the ability to talk. 

Which is exactly when the fun of the chat dissolves once more into uncomfortable sharing. “No, it ain’t.” Well, he’s come this far. “‘S my dad’s name. Mum was a French national, met my dad in London.”

“Oh… so Jones is…?” 

“My surname.” Jones has started twisting the hem of his shirt anxiously. “Don’t like my first name, and as much as I’d love to use my mum’s name--my Grandma’s name--it doesn’t feel very me. So, Jones it is.” 

He expects more prying. Dan certainly had been desperate for more information at this point. Drunkenly delving into Jones’ personal life by asking what his mother’s name was. Asking his real first name. Hell, he’d demanded to know where Jones’ parents had been for the majority of his upbringing. But Howard doesn’t. Refreshingly, he takes this as fact and moves on. Cheerily offering, “I don’t think I can pass judgement on anyone’s names with a family name like Moon.”

It’s his exit route. He knows it, Howard knows it. And of course, he takes it. That was a lot of sharing he just did, he’s thankful for the time to breathe. “I like Moon, it’s cartoony-- in a good way.” 

“Thank you.” Howard furrows his brow. “I think?” 

Snickering, Jones reaches for his now cold tea, and moves to stand. “I’m going to make us a fresh brew, alright?” 

It is running away from everything about his personal life he’s just spilled? Absolutely. Does Howard stop him, no of course not. Because that would make him a hypocrite. 

Besides, Howard likely wasn’t finished yet. There was more to Jones than his broken family history, and all he had done was wet Howard’s appetite. And if he was expected to talk more later, then Jones needed more tea. 

With a nod, he goes. 

***

After a second brew, they settle into companionable chatting. 

The easy kind that they had shared on their venture home. Howard tells Jones some more stories about himself and Vince and their adventures. As it turns out, what Jones thought was an obsessive ex-boyfriend was actually a murderous merman (which after a few days in Vince’s life, he has no trouble believing). 

Howard tells him the rather adorable tale of a trip he took with Vince to Sevenoaks wildlife park. Jones nearly spits his tea out giggling over the tale of them falling into the water. Though, Howard’s timid description of how he was guided into petting the real life version of Bambi is tooth-rotting sweet. At which point he drops something that he feels Vince should probably have mentioned. “It’s easier to get along with animals when Vince can talk them into behaving, though.” 

Jones pauses. For a minute considers that he is reading too much into the comment but then. Well, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’s heard all day would it? Most people would assume that what Howard meant was that Vince had a lovely quirk of chatting at animals for company. They had worked at a zoo. 

What Jones jumps to is, “Howard, are you saying… can Vince talk to animals?” 

Howard pauses in his story… blinks at Jones like he’s the one suggesting something strange. “Did he not tell you that?” 

“No… no he fucking didn’t.” 

Thank god that hadn’t come up at any point. He’s not entirely sure what he would have done had a situation arisen where Howard expected him to start chatting to a barn owl. 

“Oh.” Howard just continues wordlessly staring at him. “So that’s not something you have in common then?” 

The startled laugh Jones emits is half rooted in affection for Howard’s innocent belief that this is just how the world works, and his utter shock of this being a thing. “Don’t be daft, it’s not normal to talk to animals, Howard, that’s… well, that’s  _ all  _ Vince.” 

The baffled expression morphs into curiosity then. “You’re saying that like normal isn’t subjective.” 

And look, Howard might have informed Jones he was a little more articulate than Vince, but that by no means insinuates he was smart. “I’ve no idea what that means.” 

Rolling his eyes, though incredibly fondly, Howard explains. “It means that what you think is normal and what I think is normal are two different things. Because we experience the world differently, clearly.” 

Which makes sense. He had thought something similar at the time he had first met Vince, and every day since spending time in Howard’s company. The universes they exist in are only fifteen minutes apart by TFL’s standards and yet somehow, entire worlds apart.  _ Vince talks to animals _ . 

“He’s literally a fucking cartoon character isn’t he.” Jones exclaims, for some reason a little miffed that his double seemed to get all the  _ fun  _ traits. “He just gets to skip around putting on nice clothes and gossiping with bluebirds all day. That’s his life isn’t it?” Howard must find his salt filled rant a little bit amusing, because he’s huffing gentle puffs of laughter. Jones smirks, but carries on. “I don’t believe this. How is that fair? I get landed with all this bullshit and he gets the friendly giant and enough whimsy for a Disney movie.” 

Of course he’s only joking. 

As much as he appears annoyed by the imbalance in their respective lives, Jones doesn’t think he’d have it any other way. He may not have had the rainbows and sunshine life Vince does, but it suits him. He thinks. In some strange way, he wouldn't be who he was without the twists and turns of his journey. Which is just fine. Because he wouldn't have Dan either. 

“Utterly unfair, I might have to ask him to stay forever.” 

“I don’t think he’d mind if you wanted to.” Howard's says, which initially confuses Jones. For a second, he thinks there’s a real belief in Howard that Vince would abandon him. But then he’s elaborating. “Though I’m not sure I could live with two of you.” 

And it’s cute. It’s really, gut-twistingly cute, that Howard’s automatic assumption (and as much as he says he’d hate it, the genuine  _ hope  _ in his features says it all) that Jones would just stay with them for good now. That Howard has not only resigned himself to a life of Vince and Jones being around permanently but is actively open to it happening, it’s heartwarming and it’s a little bit sad. 

Because it reminds him that there’s a fourth person to this equation that has yet to be talked about. 

That deserves to be talked about. 

“As fun as that would be,” Jones starts, and it hurts that Howard’s features already twist with rejection. “I do have people in my life that would miss me too… At least I hope he would.” 

It is a weak joke, too bathed in real fears that Howard immediately picks up on it. 

“Did we not talk about this self-deprecating business?” The older man tries, but he quickly forgoes that and tries to be as genuine as possible. “Without knowing Dan--” And Jones nearly faints at the fact Howard had been listening to him enough to actually remember what his roommate was called. “I think he’d have a hard time  _ not  _ missing you.” 

There’s no need to ask for further explanation. Howard’s already providing it. “You like to pretend you’re not like Vince at all but you are. You have a way of just… brightening a room.” 

Jones just gapes at him. 

“If he’s got any sense he’ll already be wondering where you are.” 

And Jones is so rocked by the genuine nature of Howard’s words that he just sarcastically replies, “That depends entirely on how good an actor Vince is.” 

The air settles around them. Enough time for Jones to try and force air back into his lungs and Howard to look like he was regretting saying anything in the first place. Vince was a sucker for a compliment but how often did real moments like that occur? Jones was willing to bet a lot less than they might have in their past. 

“Oh well then you might be buggered.” Howard mutters. But it’s enough. Jones emits a laugh, and Howard reaches over to pat comfortingly at his knee. “Come on, I’ll make us some lunch.” 

“That’d be nice.” 

***

At a certain point, Jones is going to have to stop simply existing in the space while Howard cooks for him. It’s beginning to take the piss a little bit, he feels, just expecting to be waited on hand and foot. 

It doesn’t matter in the slightest if that is what Howard is used to, Jones is not Vince. So when Howard digs out the components for what looks like a salad, Jones decides he isn’t going to just be a pretty face anymore. 

Howard only raises his eyebrows as Jones settles at his side and holds his hand out for the knife. He doesn’t move to hand it over either, Jones has to wave his hand about and say, “Give it here.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m not completely incompetent and you can’t do all the work all the time.” Jones rolls his eyes, and reaches out to take the knife by the handle anyway. Howard watches him slide the chopping board over the counter. 

It’s just chopping peppers, it really can’t be that hard. 

Jones gets to work, and Howard hovers dutifully at his side. He watches each swipe of the blade, and after a second, seems to realise Jones can’t possibly fuck this up. So he settles there, cocks his hip against the counter and relaxes as Jones takes over the preparation of their meal. 

It’s another hint of the domesticity Jones is sure he shouldn’t be getting so used to. 

“You don’t like talking about yourself much.” Howard muses eventually. 

And granted, it’s really not that much of an observation. Jones is fairly sure it’s a conclusion someone could have come to within an hour of meeting him. It’s such a non-observation in fact that even Jones doesn’t say anything to it. He sets aside his chopped peppers and moves on to the next item on his culinary list. 

Howard doesn’t elaborate on the comment either. More like he just wanted to point out that he had noticed it about him. 

Except Jones knows better. He’s been pulling the same trick on Howard all week. Stating something and then allowing the silence to stew them enough for the other party to add comment. So Jones takes only about a minute to say anything. 

“There’s not a lot to talk about.” Which even as he’s saying the words knows Howard won’t believe. It’s why he doesn’t look up as he says it. Focuses on the rhythmic slicing. 

Another moment of calculated silence and Howard is redeeming another one of his bargained for questions. “How did you meet your housemate?” 

In itself it’s an innocent question but there’s something behind it. It’s secretly imploring. Like he couldn’t care less about how Jones met Dan at all but more importantly, just wants to know  _ anything  _ about them. 

“If there’s somethin’ you wanna know, Howard don’t dance around it.” Jones grumbles. “I ain’t Vince, I’m not gonna bite your head off for being direct.” 

Which startles the man a little. But he goes along with it. “I’m just trying to understand you.” Howard says. “You went through with this switch for a reason and I know you say it’s because you didn’t know how to help a friend but…” 

But Howard likely just came to the realisation that his own relationship with Vince isn’t just struggling the way  _ friends  _ struggle. Maybe he’s trying to draw parallels to understand the situation better. Which Jones would be fine with, if he wasn’t so startling close to the mark. 

Jones being hopelessly in love with Dan was never something Howard was supposed to become privy to. 

“You really don’t need to get involved in that.” Jones says a little firmer. 

But low and behold, when Howard Moon sets his mind to something, he’s going to get answers. It’s one of the only times he has ever reminded Jones of Dan. “You surely can’t think that you can solve a problem from one side?” Howard says. “You have Vince to help with him, why won’t you let me help you?” 

“Because I don’t need help.” 

“Are you certain of that?” 

It stings as much as it’s a relief, really. Because maybe Jones agrees. Having Vince have the conversation with Dan was fine and dandy but what happens when Jones goes back? Surely there’d be a disconnect there. Maybe he did need to have his side of the story heard too. Maybe someone listening to him, like Howard listens to him, would be just what he needed. 

And why does he want to spill his guts. 

That’s a new feeling. Jones hasn’t ever felt anything but fiercely protective of himself and his story. But tipping his head back and peering up into Howard’s pleading face--wanting to be let in--Jones feel  _ heard.  _

He’s so afraid of the feeling that he drops the knife on the counter. Shuts himself in the bedroom, and he cries. 

* **

Howard comes to find him an hour later. 

He creeps into the bedroom with all the actual secrecy of a drunken giraffe. Meaning he’s not successful at all. His steps aren’t dulled, he stumbles over an abandoned shirt Vince left on the floor. Curses softly as he tries to navigate the dark room over to where Jones lays slumped on Vince’s bed. But when he comes to a stop by the bed, and deposits a steaming mug of something, Jones pricks up. 

That’s a familiar smell. 

“That’s coffee.” Even if he had wanted to shoot into sitting, Jones finds he’s too lethargic to do so. Rather he has to press himself carefully to upright and scoot himself to the edge of the bed. He peers into the mug, then up towards Howard’s timid face. “You didn’t have coffee.” 

Howard blushes a little, shrugs one shoulder. “I figured if I upset you, a trip to Tesco was the least I could do.” 

Jones already wants to sob, but then Howard goes one further, digs a little box from his pocket and holds them out to Jones. “And quitting two habits at once probably isn’t helping the situation either.” 

Howard’s bought him cigarettes. 

Jones can’t even take them from him. He drops his head into his hands before Howard has a chance to see the tears rolling down his cheeks. Not that it matters, the hitching, choking breaths he’s taking probably give away exactly what’s happening. 

He’s reminded of the bathroom a few nights ago. His head is spinning. The world is heavy. It’s upside down. Nothing is okay because here is this man in front of him, trying his best to be the manifestation of comfort and Jones doesn’t know how to take it--because he simply isn’t used to it. His natural reaction is to say ‘no thank you’. It’s to turn away and stubbornly cope on his own because that’s how he and Dan have always worked. He supports them both, and pretends weakness doesn’t exist in himself. 

He can’t afford to be weak, he doesn’t have the right. Not when Dan needs him so badly. 

And feeling weak-- _ wanting to let himself be weak for once _ \--is horrifying. 

Howard hovers for a minute, watching him. Jones can feel his gaze boring into his dipped head. It’s burning on the edges of his perception where the room around him is going blurry. His lungs are screaming out for air that he can’t pull in for how quick he’s expelling it--fuck he’s going to pass out. 

The bed dips, Howard’s weight settles beside him. Confused and floundering by by god he’s not shying away from it, which is a little nice. Jones seeks out contact like a dying man, instantly shoots a hand to his left in the hopes of achieving said contact and is relieved that one of Howard’s hands catches him. The larger man throws his free arm around Jones’ shoulders. It’s exactly what he needs; he turns his face into Howard’s shoulder and continues to choke out pathetic whimpers. 

“What can I do?” Jones feels the rumble of Howard's voice travel through him and even that helps. 

“Be here.” Is all he can get out between heaving breaths. 

To his credit, Howard takes that response and he goes with it. He does everything in his power to remind Jones that he’s here. Where their fingers are linked together Howard pulls them to his chest and squeezes; the arm over Jones’ shoulder pulls him close. And he talks, “It’s alright. I’m here.” 

Jones’ shuddering breaths rock the both of them, but it doesn’t matter. Howard can’t possibly know what is wrong, but that doesn’t make any difference to his caregiving. He weathers the storm of Jones’ meltdown with surprising stability. 

“Everything is going to be fine, little man. You’re okay.” 

That fucking nickname. 

He sits there for what must be ten minutes. Trembling and crying like an idiot. Howard is unmoving. It’s like the world's longest trust exercise in Jones’ mind because there’s only ever been one other person who has ever seen him in a state like this--the problem was that person never remembered any of it happening. Or at least, he pretended he hadn’t witnessed it. Brushed it all under the rug and took the return of Jones’ forced smiles at face value. 

So Jones finds himself gasping explanations into Howard’s tear stained shoulder. “I want to believe he loves me, I thought he did but he--” He sucks in a breath. “All he does is push me away and I don’t know how much more I can take.” 

Howard says nothing, just listens. “I hate him.” He chokes through a heaving breath. “And I mean it, i  _ fucking hate him  _ but I think that’s why I love him. Because he infuriates the absolute shit out of me. He’s messy and broken and wouldn’t know human decency if it punched him in his grumpy fucking face but he’s  _ mine. _ ” 

Howard’s hand is rubbing up and down his back as he rants wetly. “But I think it was okay because I’m a bit broken too. I’m erratic and strange and  _ so  _ fucked up that we just… we get each other, you know? We made sense. We knew how to handle each other but then everything went so wrong and I’m scared. I’m so scared.” 

There’s probably more to be said but he can’t get the words out. 

Howard holds him, and he cries. 

***

“Sorry.” Jones sniffles. 

Eventually the tears stop. 

It takes longer than anticipated. Jones hasn’t had a real meltdown like that in so long he is honestly surprised that his body knows how to do it. But his grandmother had told him once years ago that crying was necessary. It was like a cleanse, ridding your body of the lead weight of your sadness one tear at a time. Jones still, to this day, doesn’t listen to the advice that’s given to him. 

He doesn’t like the feeling of losing control like that. As cathartic as it is, it’s much too messy for him. Jones may not be a control freak to the level Howard displays hismelf to be, but he does hold himself to certain standards and sobbing into a strangers shoulder is not how he conducts himself. 

But. It’s happened now. There’s no way to stake it back. 

Upon realising this process was going to take time, Howard had nudged Jones into a reclined position. Had sat beside him with his back to the headboard and reminded Jones of his presence with the occasional muttered words of affirmation and gentle fingers carding through his hair. Jones had felt a little guilty, a bit dirty, accepting such intimate comfort from someone who--for all intents and purposes--was spoken for. 

But another lesson his grandmother had taught him? Sometimes it’s okay to be a little bit selfish. By god did Jones deserve to be selfish. 

He’d pillowed his head in Howard’s lap and accepted all the comfort that was being passed in his direction without a hint of shame. He’d whimpered and whined. He had cried. Sniffled. Choked. And he’d done it all in Howard’s lap until he finally felt something close to human again. 

At which point, the utter embarrassment for his actions had set in. 

“I’m sorry to have put you in that position.” His head is still in Howard’s lap. So he can’t see the man’s face, though he thinks he knows what expression might be painted on it. Sympathy. Pity. Maybe even regret for trying to get involved in this complicated mess. “I didn’t mean to…” 

“No.” Howard snaps the word, harsh enough that Jones flinches and the larger man is forced to rush out an apology. “Sorry, I just. Don’t apologise to me. I think you needed it.”

He isn’t wrong. But even after he says it there’s no further word from Jones. He continues to lay there, silent. The tears may have stopped but the sense of sadness lingering over his head has not moved much. There’s an insistent tugging in his chest. Words and explanations trying to fight their way out. Jones said a lot of things int the past hour or so. Snippets of insults against Dan, and then in the same breath sniveling how much he needs him. It probably sounded pathetic to Howard listening on. He should really explain… but he can’t bring himself to. Not just yet. 

Howard seems to sense he needs a little more time, but he does mutter something about his back hurting and Jones is startled to feel gentle hands urging his head up off Howard’s lap. The larger man slides down on the bed, tugs a pillow down with him. The end result leaves them both laying shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the ceiling together. 

“Have you ever spoken to him about how he’s making you feel?” Howard asks, almost twenty minutes later. 

“What do you think Vince is there for.” 

And in a reiteration of an earlier joke, Howard mutters. “You’re definitely fucked.” 

Jones gives a weak giggle, but then sighs. “Sometimes I’d  _ try _ . He’s… complicated. He drinks a lot and when he’s drunk he’s a bit more open so we can hold conversation better but... I’m not sure he ever really listens to me.” 

_ Not like you do. _

“Then that’s where you start.” Howard suggests. God bless the man really trying to help. “When you go home you tell him straight. You don’t know if you can stay around someone who treats your existence like it’s expendable.” 

Jones wants to point out how difficult that conversation would actually be, but he thinks Howard was right. He thinks he’s known for weeks that this is exactly how that chat has to go. Dan won’t change until he thinks he’s at risk of losing something that matters to him. 

Question is; does Jones matter enough to him. 

“I can’t imagine my life without him taking up space in it, Howard.” Jones hates how his voice cracks as he says it. 

“And if he’s got any brain in his head, he’ll feel the same.” Howard replies, no trace of sympathy in his tone anymore. Just cold hard determination. “I can’t speak for him, I don’t know his side of the story. But it sounds to me like the most important thing is for  _ you  _ to realise he isn’t solely your responsibility.” Howard says. “I understand wanting to take care of someone when they need it, but if this is the result? Is it worth it?”

Jones gives a weak nod. A gentle wordless indicator that he is in fact listening to what Howard is saying. 

Howard takes a moment to ensure he words his next statement. But when it comes it’s a firm delivery. “If he wants you in his life then he also needs to take responsibility for his behaviour.” 

Which doesn’t just feel like an assessment of Jones and Dans situation. It kind of sounds like a mantra Howard might repeat into the mirror before fully tackling this thing with Vince. It feels like the first step towards change. It hits him like a wave, rushing from head to toe. It’s comforting but harsh against his skin. 

All four of them need to take responsibility for their behaviour. 

Which is perhaps why Jones finds himself confessing. “I’m not perfect either.” 

For the first time since laying down Howard turns his head over to look at him. Jones sees the movement in his peripheral vision but he doesn’t try to look back. He picks out points on the white ceiling that stand out. Splashes of what look like pink--probably Vince’s fault somehow--cracks and discoloured spots. He let’s Howard observe him as he continues talking. 

“I’m an ex-junkie.” Jones feels the admission tear from his throat. “I met him when I was barely a year sober and I saw this utter mess of a man and I decided I could fix him.”

Jones isn’t used to letting himself feel like the weak one, but maybe admitting your faults wasn’t as scary as he’d built it up to be. 

Maybe, if Howard and Vince, and even Dan potentially, were going to come out of this marginally more self-aware. Then it’s almost certainly a chance for Jones to reflect on where he can do better. 

Howard hasn’t said a word to interrupt. He’s the picture of an eager audience. 

“I’m such a fucking hypocrite Howard. All the time, and we both know it.” His throat is raw, a new lump forming. Jones swallows around it. “I lecture him and push and preach, knowing that once over I was no better. I don’t have the right to pretend I’m the victim in our relationship. ‘Cause I’m not. If anything I bully him for not living up to  _ my  _ unrealistic expectations of what he should be--” 

“I’m sure you don’t--” 

“I do.” One fresh tear breaks free. Jones reaches up to scrub at his cheek. “I got so fixated on fixing him that… especially recently we seem to just fight all the time. Over stupid shit. I’m too busy trying to force help on him that I think I’m probably just making it all worse.” 

Jones barks a humourless laugh. “Even when we were fucking each other--” The sharp inhale of shock that comes from his side probably wasn’t intentional, poor Howard just seems to be along for the ride. “--we were content enough that I convinced myself there was real change and when there wasn’t we fell apart.” 

Dan hadn’t exactly been sober for the few weeks that they were indulging in each other. But he had been marginally more stable. He’s laughed with Jones on a daily basis. Touched him like he was precious. Jones had woken one morning, while they had spent a brief period travelling together, to find Dan smoking on the balcony of their tiny French hotel room and he had called him back to bed in his second language. 

They had kissed and Dan had, while entirely sober, told him he felt happy. 

Naturally, when all of that was shattered when Dan had resorted back to his old ways within days of getting back to London. The resulting fight was when they’d called off anything but a platonic relationship. 

Looking back on it now, Jones was as much in the wrong as Dan was. “Maybe I need to realise people aren’t projects.” Which is uncomfortable to come to terms with. His own faults. But at the same time, it’s incredibly cathartic. “I think I… I love him even when he’s in pieces. I do. I don’t need him to be whole. I just need him to be able to come to me when he isn’t and if I keep treating him like this then he never will, will he?” 

It’s a rhetorical question.At least, Jones thinks it was a rhetorical question. After all, the amount of information he’s just unloaded onto this poor innocent man in bed beside him--who didn’t ask for any of this--he’d be shocked if Howard could even attempt to answer him. 

Of course, never underestimate Howard Moon. He naturally tries to answer. “I think you’re going to be fine.” He says, and is that pride in his tone?

It’s so innocently hopeful Jones starts giggling weakly. “God I hope so.” 

“No, you will be.” Howard shifts, the back of his hand brushes Jones’ but makes no other move. Their shoulders bump together. “Because you’ve recognised where you need to get better, and if Vince has done his job right then Dan will have too, and you’ll get better.” 

Jones feels a smile break free on his features. He turns his head to consider where Howard was already smirking over at him. “Just that easy?” 

“Just that easy.” Howard agrees. “You go home tomorrow, you confess all your wrongdoings, you show him you’re there to support him without smothering him, and then you inform him that he needs to start demonstrating that he’s capable of thinking about you too.” 

There is a sudden wave of affection for this gentle bear of a man in the bed beside him that Jones has to demonstrate it the only way he knows how. Physically. He is more than aware Howard might not take to it, given his aversion for touch, but he would kick himself if he didn’t try. Besides, warming the older man up to a little bit of affection now and then would probably earn him a generous thank you from Vince. 

Carefully, Jones rolls himself onto his side facing Howard. The other man’s eyes widen slightly, a little bit of panic, but he doesn’t say anything as Jones scoots himself closer. It’s a slow movement, his arm creeping across Howard’s stomach, but when it isn’t shrugged off, he takes it as permission to also lay his head on Howard’s shoulder. 

The northern man is stiff as a board for exactly thirty seconds before he begins to relax. Tension seeps from him easily. One arm slips beneath Jones’ head… and they’re cuddling. 

“It’s going to be hard.” Jones mumbles. 

The deep rumble of Howard’s chuckle is therapeutic against Jones’ cheeks. “Of course it’s going to be hard. But, if you can have that talk with your Dan... then I promise I’ll talk to Vince and tell him everything.” 

Jones knows what he means, but he wants to hear explicitly. “Everything?” 

“Everything.” Howard confirms, his voice wavering as he likely tries to repay Jones’ honesty. “That I adore him, that I’m sorry for betraying him, and that I can’t imagine anything worse than not having him around but... but also that he can’t continue being furious with me and bottling it up. It all needs to be laid out on the table.”

“I think you’re going to be fine.” Jones says, inspiring a heartwarming giggle from the larger man. 

“We will be.” Howard agrees, the closest thing to confidence he can have in a situation like this. And devastatingly, Howard dips his head to press an affectionate peck to the crown of Jones’ head. “We’re all going to be absolutely fine.” 

***

“We’ve got the rest of the night, anything you’d like to do?” 

Jones snickers. It’s barely gone eight. After they had both gotten their respective relationship trouble off their chests, they had naturally reverted back to their awkward bumbling selves that did not deal with serious topics all that well. Jones had playfully grumbled that his apology cigarettes were calling his name, and Howard had insisted they definitely needed to eat. 

Which is exactly how they had ended up like this; Jones half hung out of the bedroom window with his second cigarette in his mouth, and Howard picking at leftover takeaway food in Vince’s bed. 

“Well, first things first, I need to call your boyfriend and decide what we’re doing tomorrow.” As Jones says it, Howard shoots him a withering look. 

“If you’re going to call him that can you at least use a term that doesn’t make us sound twelve?” He gripes around a mouthful of food. Which, to Jones, says a lot. 

He has no problem with the insinuation of the word, just the word used. 

“What should I call him then, you lover?” Jones giggles around his smoke. 

Another glare. “No that’s terrible. Makes it sound… I don’t know. Seedy.” 

Jones chews on his lip, takes another drag on his cigarette while he considers if the joke he is about to make might be pushing his luck a little bit… but then he thinks, fuck it, what he and Howard are forming is something resembling a friendship. Might as well use that to his advantage. “I don’t know Howard, snogging on the roof is a little bit seedy.” 

And where last time Howard had referenced the kiss, he had viewed it as something negative. This time, Howard flushes pink as soon as it is mentioned. 

Howard’s ‘no smoking in the bedroom’ rule goes solidly out of the window (exactly where Jones refuses to remain, ironically) because he is bouncing across the bedroom on his toes, cackling with excitement. “Look at your face!” He screeches. “You  _ liked  _ it!” 

Suddenly the food in Howard’s lap is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. 

Jones refuses to be ignored. Climbs onto the bed and bounces on his knees. This is the most like himself he’s felt in days; cheeky and  _ alive _ . “Do you want to kiss him again?” 

“What kind of question is that?” Howard snaps. “Look, you’re getting ash all over my bed.” 

“It’s  _ Vince’s  _ bed, smart arse.” Jones sticks his tongue out, leaning over to stub out his cigarette in a half empty glass of water--much to Howard’s utter disgust. “And it’s a perfectly reasonable question given the other day you talked about that kiss as if it was a manipulation tactic.” 

Rolling his eyes, Howard sighs like he’s trying to deal with a petulant child. “It did feel like that to me.” He confesses. “And I wasn’t overjoyed that  _ that  _ was the situation we ended up in but…” 

“But you  _ liked it _ !” Jones screeches again. Bounces the mattress under his knees for good measure. 

“You’re insufferable. When are you going back to your life again?” 

He can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed at that comment. Jones recognises the humour in Howard’s gaze as he says it. The hope for a future relationship with Vince but also, the comfort in finding a similar friendship in Jones. It’s relieving for them both, Jones thinks, that despite the strange situation there is the potential for something to bloom here. 

A new friendship for them both. 

“I’m going to go find out now.” Jones promises. He lets his grin split his features, slides off of the bed and plants his feet to the floor. He scoops his phone from the bedside table, and makes his way for the privacy of another room. 

Just before he leaves he pauses in the doorway, “Hopefully early tomorrow, right, the sooner he’s back the sooner you can have a second chance at that kiss.” 

Jones just barely dodges the pillow tossed in his direction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oui, n'était-ce pas évident (Yes, was it not obvious?) 
> 
> A lot of this fic, but this chapter specifically, has really let me explore a lot of my own personal headcannons about Jones as a character. But by far the most fun of those for me is the idea that he's French. I'm just mad about it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, all the continues support, kudos, comments means so much to me. They all keep me motivated, and I adore you all <3 
> 
> As ever you can find me on Tumblr:
> 
> @queen-boo / @anciientboosh


	12. Won't stop 'til it's over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the last night any of them will spend away from their correct halves, and every single one of them prepares to be reunited with their regular lives. Vince and Jones both open up a bit more, Howard listens, and Dan tries to work out what to say when Jones is back.

Silence can say a great many things if translated correctly. It can be a tool or a weapon depending on whose hands it’s wielded in; and after a rather enlightening few days walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, Vince is coming to appreciate exactly how a lack of verbal communication can be used for his own benefit as well as when interpreted from another party. 

It’s not like this is news to him. The silent treatment has and always will be a viable option for Vince Noir when he is throwing one of his world famous tantrums. It’s not a well used one, but over the years as Howard had gotten less likely to engage in the argument and instead rise above his childish behaviour; Vince had been forced to seek out other avenues of gaining attention. When snapped insults and threats of spreading malicious rumours didn’t work, Vince could see the value in folding his arms over his chest and pouting his way to a response. 

With Dan, the silence Vince uses is a little different. Dan’s first language is not using language at all, and so choosing to keep his lips sealed and instead speak to him with his hands is entirely a choice made for comfort rather than revenge. 

It’s one of the more valuable lessons he has learnt since assuming the role of Jones. That holding back his voice and instead paying attention to what others are doing and saying is just as important in communicating as speaking is. 

Many people spoke many languages when it came to the people that mattered in their lives, and if Dan’s language is touch then Howard’s was perhaps rooted in the way he  _ treated  _ people. 

Vince had spent most of his relationship with Howard vexed over the fact the man wasn’t filled with as much action as his boasted persona would lead people to believe--but perhaps that’s just because Vince was translating wrong. 

Howard may not kiss him. May not hold his hand or cuddle him without being tricked into the contact. The man may not explicitly say the words ‘you mean a lot to me’. He may confess his love and then never mention it again, pretend an act of moonlit passion on their roof never happened… But what Howard does do is help Vince straighten his hair when he can’t reach the strands at the back. What Howard took great joy in was making Vince little cakes when he was sad. The northern man would complain endlessly about being the only responsible one in their duo, but when push came to shove would have no trouble stepping between Vince and a threat (whether that be a grizzly mountain man or a gun wielding zoo owner) and declaring  _ ‘I’ll handle this, little man’.  _

And one thing is suddenly startling clear for Vince; he’s going to have to do better at  _ really listening  _ when he gets back to his own life. 

Which he thinks he can do. It can’t be that hard, can it. Surely not as hard as learning to interpret Dan’s behaviour in as little as four days. At least with Howard he’s had a few years unwitting practice at reading his moods and behaviours. 

It was like Jones had said to him on the phone some days ago. Once you know what you’re looking for, it’s easy. 

He does wonder if Jones is having similar realisations at home. What kind of personal revelations was Howard guiding the younger doppelganger through--whether knowingly or not. 

Whatever they were, he hoped it was enough to pull Dan and Jones back from the edge of this relationship abyss. 

Speaking of Dan. After their period of contact, Vince providing a little of what Dan needed while satiating his own craving, they had gingerly separated. The evening was not yet late enough for either of them to consider bed, but there was only so much prolonged cuddling one could do with a stranger before it was considered improper. 

Dan had limped to the kitchen to fetch himself a drink--one that he proclaimed was non-alcoholic so Vince could  _ ‘reign in his second-hand concern’ _ \--and settled on the other sofa adjacent to where Vince was slumped. 

They had remained in companionable quiet ever since. Which was fine, they both obviously had a lot to think about at the moment with their other halves impending return. 

Problem was, even as Vince inwardly proclaimed his appreciation for words left unsaid--he was still a talker. There were some things about him that would never change, and as he observed the reclined form of Howard’s double he couldn’t help but notice the pinched tiredness to his features. The taut pull of his facial muscles as he stared up at the ceiling. They had been through a lot today emotionally, and physically where Dan was concerned. 

"You should probably go to bed." Vince murmurs into the air, but the suggestion isn’t well received. 

Dan rolls his head on his neck to peer over at Vince; that all-seeing hazelnut gaze raking from the tip of his head to the souls of his feet. Calculating. Dan almost always thinks about what he says before it’s spoken aloud. Vince thinks that’s what a large part of his silent act is. Not a lack of words but a withholding of everything that big brain of his  _ could  _ say. Perhaps he had learnt over the years that quick responses were not always the ones most appreciated. Sometimes, even as Dan thinks of things to say, as he clearly has now if the way he smirks to himself is anything to go by, he still won’t say them out loud. 

Vince is left to translate the look he’s getting. They arch of eyebrows and twisted smirk. Like Vince has just suggested they commit an utterly sinful act together and then get some brunch afterwards. Utter disappointment undercut with the itching urge to agree. 

“I’m not tired.” Dan asserts. All he serves to do in the process is convince everyone in the room he harbours the attitude of a five year old. Not new information by any stretch of the word, but one that leaves Vince biting back his amusement regardless. 

“You  _ look  _ tired.” Is Vince’s helpful reply. 

Despite there being plenty Ashcroft could contribute to this back and forth, he doesn’t try to. Whatever responses appear in his inner monologue--responses that make his lips twitch in amusement--remain locked behind closed lips. Dan goes back to observing the ceiling in silence. Which, if nothing else about this intermittent quiet, annoys Vince endlessly. 

Dan isn’t even doing anything. Simply laying there. On a pillow, the man has his bad leg propped up after Vince had badgered him into taking some painkillers and elevating it to relieve the ache; the other leg dropped to the floor. The limb bouncing on the ball of his foot, heel tapping against the carpet anxiously. Dan has one hand draped over his stomach and the other tucked behind his head. He's the picture of relaxation, but Vince knows better. Can see him thinking. Considering. Somethings going on in that complex head of his he's just not putting voice to it. 

Not that he has to. "You know I've never known anyone  _ think  _ as loud as you do." Vince announces. 

"I'm just trying to match the volume of your actual mouth." Dan doesn’t look at him as he bites the words, but the man’s entertainment for the whole situation is thick in the air. It wraps Vince in a sense of familiarity that he’s happy to bask in. The kind reminds him of witty back and forth, the smell of animal shit and sawdust. The squeal of a tannoy. 

And Howard. 

A memory of banter much more carefree than it had been for months. 

“My mouth wants you to say what's on your mind,” Vince plucks at the fabric of the throw he’d tugged over himself. Dan turns a curious look on him once more, seeking clarification for his statement. “Rather than just clogging up the air with your thought bubbles.” 

"Why?"

"Because I'm bored and interested." Vince lays his response out like it was completely obvious. Dan snorts at his reasoning. "And because I'm  _ obviously _ trying to teach you a lesson in communication. If you wanna fix this thing with Jones then you're going to have to get a little better at actually saying words. You know, like regular people do." 

"He's not exactly a chatter box either, you know.” Dan sighs, exasperated but resigned to his fate. “Not like you are, anyway." 

Which at least, in matters of Jones, Vince could have figured out by himself. He did not need Dan to tell him that between the doppelgangers Vince was the chatty one. Even in the brief time he had known Jones he had understood that socially, they operated differently. Jones preferred the comfort of those familiar to him, and Vince had no trouble engaging with strangers until they  _ became  _ familiar to him. 

However, in Vince’s book, that just meant that perhaps both of them needed to learn a lesson or two in communication. Jones craved words from Dan, tired of being the one between them to operate as the voice box but… Vince would bet there was plenty left to be said on his side too. If the pair of them could unzip their lips long enough to have a decent conversation they would be absolutely fine. 

The care was there. The feelings. The deep seated adoration for one another; communicating it was a hurdle they would need to overcome. 

“Then I tell you what,” Vince offers; negotiator extraordinaire. “I’ll make sure to spend just as much time bugging him about his vow of silence, but unluckily for you he isn’t here is he? You are. So what you thinkin’ over there that’s got your face all bunched up.” 

As if on cue the older man’s face bunches exactly as Vince had expected it to. Hesitations and curiosities lick over his features like the flames of a dwindling fire. Ashes of his thought processes scattering to the wind so he can focus on one single inquiry. “Can I see that photo again?” 

It certainly isn’t what Vince had expected to come out of Dan’s mouth, but he finds himself curious as to where this train of thought might lead. Indulging him would certainly do no harm, but denying him would. This was one of the few times Dan was incentivised enough to be the one to reach out, it was--no matter how bizarre a request--surely a positive step forward. This is exactly why Vince doesn’t say a word. 

He might squint his eyes a little in, not suspicion, but caution. Dan mirrors the action right back to him. Regardless, there is no hesitation in his movements as he slides long fingers into his back pocket and digs free his wallet. 

The photo is freed. Crooked edges are smoothed out. The frozen smiles of the younger subjects are grazed over with wistful fingertips; and then Vince extends it as an offer to Dan. To the older man’s credit, he takes the glossy photograph with as much care as Vince himself shows it. As if he knows to treat it with the utmost respect--exactly the opposite as he’d treated it that morning. 

The quiet is stifling as Dan lays back, holding it above his face and just…  _ stares _ at it. 

“What did you say his name was again?" Almost everything that comes out of Dan’s mouth drips with confident disdain; a man who knows--or at least likes to pretend--that he is above everyone else who walks this earth. This question isn’t. It’s hushed. Shy. 

A fear of being denied manifesting from years living with a secretive flatmate. 

"Howard." Luckily for Dan, secretive isn’t really in Vince’s vocabulary. "Howard Moon. Been my best mate since we were little kids. I live with him above the shop we work in. That's us when we worked at a zoo, years ago now."

And when all he gets for this honesty is a frankly  _ startled  _ expression from Dan, Vince finds his fingers once again fidgeting in the plush fabric of the blanket over his lap. “What?” He demands; waspish tone giving away his underlying insecurity over Dan’s judgement. 

"Nothing.” Dan snaps back immediately with inflection that might convince some he was annoyed. The opposite is true, though, the downward slant to his lips speaks more to his own confusion. “I, well, I normally have to  _ bully _ information out of Jones so it's-- weird to… you just told me half your life story in a single breath."

Oh. Well, that was less a passing judgement on Vince’s tendency to chatter and instead a comment on Jones’ inability to share while unfairly demanding that Dan does it. “Has he always been that secretive, then?” 

“Hmm,” Dan is nodding, but he’s gone back to staring at the photograph. 

Again, silence. Vince is forced to roll his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer for more patience with which to deal with this awkward lump of a man. “That must be pretty annoying?” He prompts. 

This time at least, Dan takes the bait. He heaves a sigh so deep Vince thinks it must have come from the souls of his shoes and drags himself into a seated position. It’s remarkable how that simple change in position is enough to convince Vince that Dan is engaging with him. His posture isn’t exactly as open as it could be, but it’s a slight more inviting than when the man had been slumped carelessly. 

“Yes, Vince. It can be very annoying.” Dan answers plainly, enunciating each word like he was talking to a toddler. But almost as soon as he’d began this grand gesture of sarcastic sharing, it falls away. His shoulders slump, he stares down at the photo in his hands once more. “I’m sure he’s filled you in on what a pain I am--” Vince winces to remember Dan’s tearful confessions from earlier  _ I’m not a good man.  _ “But he can be…” 

“Hypocritical?” 

“Wow, I’m surprised you know what that word means.” Dan gripes. But Vince knows better than to be offended by the words; Dan was doing what he did best when he felt vulnerable. He lashed out. 

All it takes is a simple reminder of, “Rude, Daniel.” And Dan is (once again) expressing his exasperation through a sharp exhalation of breath. 

Yet, much like he had earlier in the day, upon being reminded of his foul attitude he does make an effort to correct it. Which is something to be noted about Dan Ashcroft; he might be a prick, but he’s certainly not  _ trying  _ to be. Not all the time, anyway.

“The reason I like him is because he’s…” Dan struggles for the word, purses his lips in consideration and darts his gaze around the room as if he’s going to find the correct descriptor hiding in between the furniture. Leaping between the sentences. “Well, I suppose because he’s a bit of a bitch.” He pauses, then shakes his head in disagreement with his  _ own _ character assessment. “No, actually he’s a colossal bitch. He’s petty, he’s loud, he  _ is  _ a fucking hypocrite and he’s--mean. Sometimes he’s mean.” 

By the end, Dan’s tone has lost all conviction. He was mumbling the words down to Vince’s old photograph like a petulant child. The confession--and it is a confession--being ripped from him unwillingly. Vince finds himself wincing on Dan’s behalf. Remembers Dan exclaiming (more than once) over the past few days of Jones’ rather unflattering habit of ‘getting on his high horse’. 

“It’s worse when they think they’re helping, isn’t it?” Vince offers it as sympathetically as possible without coming off as patronising. He is aware how out of his depth Dan must feel, saying things out loud he’s usually having to get drunk in order to say. “You know they’re just tryin’ to do right by you, but instead they’re making you feel like a complete failure. Somehow  _ way _ worse than if they’d just called you useless and moved on.”

For whatever reason, whether it be Vince’s familiar face, or perhaps the fact he is a complete stranger who has a unique view on the situation. Or maybe, painfully, simply because Dan has finally snapped on how much he can tolerate in silence--the man seems to take comfort in Vince and his words. 

The shoulders are still tense, but they aren’t jammed up around his ears so much. He still wears a sour expression, but it’s less like he’s just swallowed a lemon whole. 

“He lectures me a lot.” Dan sniffs, and Vince struggles to tell if it’s in indignation or perhaps a noise symbolising upset. “And sometimes he’s every right to, don’t get me wrong. I’m not so far in denial I don’t realise I’ve got an issue. I’m… I’m a piece of shit almost  _ all of the time _ . I--” He clears his throat. “But there are occasions when I don’t need lecturing I need…” 

Whether Dan’s words fail him or whether he simply can’t bring himself to admit what he needs, is unclear. It is very likely to be a healthy combination of both. But Vince knows what he means regardless. 

Sometimes he doesn’t need the caretaker Jones has set himself up to be, sometimes, Dan just needs a friend. 

And on the other end of the spectrum was Jones, who needed to be shown he wasn’t only here to act as a glorified personal assistant and life coach to the world's most stubborn writer. He needed to be told he was not only needed but  _ wanted.  _ As a friend, a lover, or however Dan was willing to take him. 

Vince can’t help the grin blooming on his face in that moment, because… well. Dan saying that out loud to him was as good as securing them a conversation when Jones returned at least. No one could guarantee what would happen going forward but at least Vince could sleep well in the knowledge he had helped one of them find the words. 

“Stop looking at me like that, it’s unnerving as shit.” Dan scolds, and all it does is serve to make Vince’s pleased grin evolve into girlish giggles. “God you’re unbelievable, how does Howard put up with you.” 

“A lot of practice.” Vince answers without a beat to think about it. He’s still vibrating with his giddiness. “I can’t help it, hearing you be  _ honest  _ for once is pretty refreshing you know. All this frowny, broody, woe-is-me nonsense doesn’t suit you as well as you think.” 

“Sunshine wouldn’t suit me either,” Dan has relocated his gaze away, but his lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. “So I’ll leave that to you.” 

Vince can only shrug this suggestion away. “Don’t be silly, sunshine is m _ y thing _ . But, you can borrow some when you need it.” And while the suggestion is a rather juvenile one, he is almost certain Dan understands what he means. “Like now. Or tomorrow, when Jones comes back and you have to tell him everything you just told me. I’ll let you take a little bit if it helps.” 

The eye contact Dan gives him then is electric; but not in the way it had been in days gone by. It’s no longer the imploring looks of a man trying to make sense of a world where Vince exists. It’s not the smouldering heat of Dan lusting after a person Vince happens to resemble. It’s not even the anger, or the hurt, or the sadness of someone just trying to figure out where they fit in this four sided equation of want and need and  _ love.  _

No, this look is… respect. 

It’s Dan perhaps finally seeing Vince as a three dimensional human. A person with thoughts and feelings and life experiences that up to now he may have brushed off. Dan searches Vince’s face, and for the first time since his identity coming to light, Vince finally feels  _ seen  _ in amongst all the Jones drama. 

And Dan isn’t looking away either. If anything, with this fresh new appreciation of who Vince is, Dan is even more curious. Which isn’t to say he hadn’t been curious before now, there had been some questions. Vague comments, a tentative sort of interest in Vince’s life beyond his doppelganger status but this is… This is like that moment when you tip a relationship from acquaintances to friends. When you know there is a line in the sand; remaining at a distance or  _ investing  _ in them as a person. 

Dan steps over that line easily. “It can’t have been easy for you, these past few days." He says, and Vince isn’t entirely certain if it’s supposed to be a statement or a question. 

For a brief second, he simply flounders. So many possible responses to that question filtering through his mind from  _ 'you've no idea'  _ right through to a carefree  _ 'nah, I was alright'  _ and in the end, under Dan's exploratory gaze, where he lands is somewhere in the middle. 

"I… I've definitely had worse."

It's a coward's answer. He is more than aware it is, a throwaway comment meant to comfort Dan about his own difficult attitude while simultaneously playing down just how much Vince had been struggling with this transition. It's doing them both an injustice, really. Vince, however ashamed as he is of his darker parts--of the insecurities and the mood swings, anything that wasn't default sunshine--deserves to be heard about his feelings. And Dan needs to realise what parts of his behaviour affected those around him so deeply. 

Even Ashcroft can see through this lie. But he doesn't say anything for a considerable time about it. Vince feels a little like a child playing hide and seek, hiding behind a curtain with their feet poking out. The adult in the room pretending not to see him purely to avoid the potential tantrum that may arrive along with discovery. 

They exist in uncomfortable complacency of Vince's fib for all of thirty seconds. Exactly as long as it takes for Vince's brain cell to panic and force placating words from his throat. "I mean, he could have left me with more to go on. Reckon you sussed me out within ten minutes of laying eyes on me."

"You're giving me too much credit." Which oddly, sounds more of a scathing remark about himself than an indictment. "I didn't  _ really  _ click on until the name, I--before that I just…" 

The guilt of a false accusation lingers behind the mask of Dan's stoicism. 

_ You're clearly using again.  _

"You knew his behaviour had changed." Vince points out carefully. "He told me you wouldn't even notice you know, said you don't pay attention to him. But you clearly knew enough to think that something was different, even if you were barking up the wrong tree a bit."

Dan scratches his fingers through his beard. Cocking his head to the side in contemplation. "Probably says a lot  _ that's _ the conclusion I jumped to, though, doesn't it."

"It does, but not what you think it might say." And while Vince may not be clued in on the whole situation, the undulating nature of Jones’ relationship with narcotics nor Dan’s relationship to that situation as a whole. What he can say for certain is that Dan cared. Granted the way he went about it could use some work, but the accusations were never made from a place of cruelty more… concern. “I think it says that you worry about him more than you let on.” 

A fact Dan himself had confessed to in an after argument, but now seems rather keen to shy away from. In the wake of Vince’s words, Dan is turning back to the photograph. He’s dragging his thumb over the glossy surface and chewing on his lips in thought. 

“Bet he knows everything about you,” Again, it’s another one of those comments that Vince isn’t entirely sure he’s supposed to respond to. On the one hand, there was no inflection to his tone indicating a question, but on the other… Dan wasn’t really the type to speak without purpose. Just leaving statements hanging in the air wasn’t his style. 

Each uttered syllable had meaning for Dan. 

Vince feels his insides give a sharp twist at the thought of what Dan was actually probing for. “‘Course he does. He’s been my best mate since forever and I--” Dan’s sharp gaze cuts to him. “--trust him.” 

It settles in the air, the resulting hurt from that answer. Heavy like a deadweight and rough like sandpaper. Vince feels like he’s said something wrong, but he knows he hasn’t. It was almost what Dan had expected to hear, had wanted to hear, he was leaning into the punch with that one. The state of this relationship with Jones was apparently a hurt he was used to suffering from; and apparently still using to punish himself with. That doesn’t make it any less unpleasant for Vince to witness. His brow bunches, a flinch streaking his features lightning fast before disappearing once more under a blank canvas of forced nothingness. 

Vince wants to comfort him. To say,  _ Jones does trust you Dan, I know he does.  _ But the words will hold about as much weight as a duck’s feather; because the other owner of this face isn’t really doing much to demonstrate that trust.

It isn’t the first time Vince has perhaps thought a certain level of bias might have been involved in Jones’ telling of this angsty tale of his and Dan’s. It’s agreeable that Dan was certainly difficult, and had sharp edges to his personality that meant one was at risk of being cut when interacting with him… but, well he was only doing his best in the situation in which he was trapped. 

Maybe they both needed to learn a little something. 

“Is that why you pretend to forget all the drunk conversations?” Vince asks suddenly; he feels as if he’s just had a lightbulb moment. Even Dan goes panicked under the question, mouth hanging open a little. “Do you reckon it’d save him all the angst if you just pretend you don’t remember?” 

“I--”

“Or is it more like you think he won’t fall in love with you if you make him think you don’t care.” 

The way panic hardens into cold fury speaks to a definite  _ both.  _ Dan was so busy trying to make sure he didn’t hurt Jones; pretending not to care about him or his life so the man didn’t feel  _ known,  _ that he hadn’t noticed how deeply he had been cutting him with his faux-indifference.  __ Keeping him at arm's length with false claims of never remembering anything about him was only doing them both more harm than whatever good Dan had hoped to achieve. 

“Well, I’ve got news for you if that’s the case.” Vince crows, almost too excitable for the tone in the room but he’s always been a little emotionally tone deaf. “It ain't working.” 

“Shut up.” 

“No. You’ve been  _ such  _ a prat--the pair of you have--and I thought you were meant to be intelligent--” 

“Vince. Stop talking.” Dan practically  _ growls  _ the words and Vince can’t do anything but halt in place like a startled animal. The cajoling dies in his throat. Humour freezes in his chest so fast even the Black Frost would be impressed. 

That very first day in Jones life when he had seen Claire’s annoyance he had wondered if Dan would look anything like Howard when angry--when  _ really  _ angry--and now he had his answer. 

No. He didn’t. 

Most of the physical reactions were the same. The minute twitch of his lip under his moustache. The pinching of the skin around his eyes. The scrunching of his nose in distaste of what he’s just heard. Though, where Howard’s fingers would twitch into his own skin when he was angry, ready to pull and twist the flesh raw in self-punishment; Dan’s curl into fists. Vince had no fear of actually being smacked (bark worse than bite) but still; the distinction between his friend’s temper and this temper was startling. 

Howard’s anger all went somewhere inside, the person most at risk of being harmed from it was himself. Dan’s channelled outwards into every space it could possibly fill. Vince feels it pressing down on him even now as the man tries to hold himself together. He remembers being backed against a wall and kissed--an action that is supposed to be a display of affection--with such fury that he’d felt at risk of being swallowed by it. 

The anger Howard Moon displays is like hot air. Warm against your skin but no real substance. Dan’s is ice cold and sharp, it’s stabbing at him with short, sharp prickles all down his spine. He feels hunted in a way he hadn’t since he was a youngster and living among predators. Subconsciously, he shuffles further back on the sofa, like even the extra inch of space between them is going to save him from whatever Ashcroft is capable of. 

Thankfully, whatever had possessed him to attempt to use Vince as a twisted source of revenge against Jones doesn’t manifest this time. Likely because in the previous incarnation of this emotion, Vince had been the weapon, and now he was the catalyst. 

Vince doesn’t dare even mutter the apology that is lingering on the tip of his tongue. He’s concerned if he so much as breathes too loudly Dan will take four steps back on all the progress they’ve just made. 

“It’s complicated.” Dan utters under his breath, eventually. The air is still thick around them but at least the other man is making some effort to wade through it. “And I don’t always… know  _ why _ I do the things I do. All I know is, it appeared to be working for us.” 

Despite it being the most inadvisable thing for him to do, Vince is snapping back at him. “I think it’s the  _ opposite  _ of working, Dan.” 

The larger man’s hands continue to bunch into fists but he seems to be doing his best to forcibly drag himself back from the edge of annoyance and deal with this in a calm and rational manner. “Well, I’m realising that now.” He grumbles. 

Vince’s shoulders slump. It’s becoming plainly obvious with each measured heave of Dan’s broad shoulder’s that he’s no intention of repeating his stupid behaviour from earlier. Perhaps he remembered Vince’s warning from last time all to well,  _ go before you do something he can’t forgive you for.  _

Jones almost certainly would not forgive Dan for causing harm--emotional or physical--to Vince. 

“Eight years is a long time to be friends with someone and think that they don’t know anything about you,” Vince imparts this wisdom in hushed tones, hoping the gentle wash of his words would only soothe Dan further. “Maybe pretending you don’t give a shit was fine for a while but he… he  _ genuinely  _ believes you couldn’t care less. And the hospital business was just the cherry on the cake.” 

"I wouldn't have to pretend not to know things if he wasn't so…" Dan rolls his shoulders in agitation, Vince is reminded of the big cats in the jungle. Postures shifting before they pounce. "Like I said it's complicated."

"I'm sure it is." Vince didn’t need to be told that explicitly, he’d realised within an hour of his first interaction with Dan. "So let me dumb it down for you, into my language yeah? How I’m seeing it--Jones is a bit of a complex bloke, he likes his secrets, but for whatever reason he reckons you're the right person to tell his secrets to--only from his side of it the one person in the world he's trusting to listen, isn't  _ listening _ ."

Dan blinks at him, but he doesn't interrupt. He, for once, appears to be willing to hear Vince out without adding his own scathing commentary on the top. 

Vince continues, "And you? You're so convinced you're gonna break him or something, so you're jus' keeping him at arm's length and pretending that it's working for you. It's easy though, to do that, isn't it? When he keeps treating you like a patient not a mate. So you’ve convinced yourself that it’s better for both of you to stay that way."

Dan just blinks at him. Vince is having to fight to keep the smile off of his face; it really isn’t very often he gets to put on the false imitation of intelligence and be the voice of reason. Truthfully, he’s probably having more fun with it than is strictly appropriate, given what’s at stake. 

“My opinion is you both need to find a way to say what you need from each other.” Vince declares. “And like it or not Daniel, you’re a human and people need other people. They need to be loved, it’s the animal part of our brains or something--I don’t know, Howard’s better at the science bit--point is, if you need to be something other than his  _ responsibility _ . Tell him.” 

At this declaration, Dan breathes a sharp exhale of what sounds like laughter. “Just that easy is it?” 

“Well no,” One shoulder is lifted and dropped again in a careless shrug, Vince returns the amusement with one of his most charming smirks. “If being in love were easy then they wouldn’t write songs about it, or make films, or write books.” 

“That’s probably the most sense you’ve made all day.” Dan teases, and it’s a relief for Vince to hear the edge of playfulness returning to his tone. 

“Piss off, I make tonnes of sense.” 

With that, it seems that Dan is ready to close the book on this, talking about his feelings business. He makes this evident by clearing his throat, as if forcing himself to swallow down anything else he might want to say, and leaning forward in his seat to offer the photograph back to Vince. It seems pretty final to him. He takes it from Dan’s hands but does not move to put it away, holds the touch warmed paper in his own hands and appreciates the image a younger Howard and Vince make on the page. 

“Can I…” Dan’s voice is muted, careful, it startles Vince to attention. “Can I ask one last question?” 

“You can ask as many as you like.” Vince replies in a heartbeat. No hesitation needed. “I’m not going to kick off about you being curious, what is it?” 

Even with the reassurance, Dan appears to hesitate. Those intelligent eyes scanning over Vince’s features in an assessing way, almost as if he’s ensuring that he is being truthful before he commits to the question. 

“You say you’re here to talk to me about the window, that’s the _ ‘cherry on the cake’ _ you said. Meaning I can assume Jones brought that up to you as the focal point of this whole mess.” And honestly, that’s the first time Dan himself has given any acknowledgement to that particular incident. Vince holds his breath for the rest of the question. “I was just wondering... what kind of shitty thing did your version of me do? Must have been something for you to send Jones in there to straighten him out.”

He can see now why the man spent so long just thinking about asking that, because it is a rather personal question.  _ How did he break your heart?  _

Vince had meant it though, he wasn’t here to discourage Dan from engaging with the people around him. “Uh… Can I think for a second?” 

“It’s not an exam question.” Dan frowns at him, confused. 

“No I just… Need to get the words right.” Honestly, he isn’t entirely sure Dan will know what he means when he says that. But to his surprise, there’s understanding in his features. “Getting ‘em all in the right order.” 

Because the truth is, he’s beginning to think that as much as Howard had hurt him, continuously, over and over again since they were teenagers and beginning their first jobs at the zoo. From dying to that first icy ‘I love you’, to selling him out for a map, right the way through to a rejection on a rooftop and an abandonment for acting. The pretty horrifying realisation Vince is now coming to is that most of it probably wasn’t intentional. 

Howard moved through the world in a very specific way; meaning he tried his best to appear if each decision is calculated, each action is decisive. The kind of man Howard wants to be is a man of intent. 

But he’s not. 

Vince knows better than anyone that he’s not. Half of Howard’s life choices are ones made in a panicked frenzy, whether he is trying desperately to be  _ noticed _ or to save his own skin. They’re rarely thought through. And the other half could barely be counted as decisions because they were probably nothing more than reactions, gut reactions to whatever Vince had been doing in the first place. 

Howard said he loved him because he was scared, like Vince had been scared, and he took it back because he was  _ terrified.  _ He’d chosen a map to a yeti den because all things considered, Howard needs attention as much as Vince does, he just wants to get it in a very specific way. 

That jazz tart from the party had likely only been able to steal Howard’s attention because Vince had  _ stupidly  _ started trying to talk him down from the pretty intense place he’d lept to after kissing for the first time--look Vince loved him but that was not the reaction he’d been expecting, and it was a bit much, so sue him for panicking. He had done what Howard did best in the face of Vince’s antics… He’d tried to prove he was  _ just fine _ . If not better. 

Maybe Vince hadn’t quite figured out  _ why _ Denmark had happened, but he knew there was going to be a reason, and the fact he’d refused to let them talk about it for some months after was likely why he didn’t know said reason.

Which has led him to his brief pause in answering Dan. Because frankly, it’s a lot to come to terms with in a short space of time. Vince only has so much brain space and a lot of that is taken up with things that many would call pointless, but pretty much make up his character. So it’s taking him a second to sift through it all and find the kind of answer Dan wants. 

“Remember when I was still Jones, and I gave you that ultimatum.” Vince asks, and it’s clear Dan has no idea where this is going because his brows knit together with his apparent confusion. 

“Yes.” 

“Howard gave me one, I think.” Vince is the one avoiding eye contact now, he’s staring at Howard’s face in the photograph he’s still holding. “Probably gave me several, to be honest. But I didn’t notice them at the time, and he never really did anything about it, anyway. Just hung around while I walked all over him and life continued to shit all over him too.” 

Dan’s eyes have widened marginally in sympathy, he already knows where this tale is going. 

“A lot like your Jones is, Howard. He looks after me, I’m not all that clever and I’m a bit difficult. Pretty moody. But he puts up with me. Makes sure I eat, cheers me up when I’m sad. He makes me laugh.” Vince smiles sadly at him. “‘Cept Jones has stuck around, and Howard didn’t.” 

Swallowing thickly, Dan shifts. He looks as if he’s about to come over to Vince’s sofa again in order to provide comfort the only way he knows how, with hands not words. 

“It ain’t really his fault though.” Vince rushes to explain, even now worried about tainting Dan’s impression of his doppelganger. “Like how you and Jones, you both sort of… need things from each other that you’re not getting? I think I’ve just realised we’re a bit the same. Not really paying the right kind of attention.” 

Dan nods his head, coming to the mutual understanding that they were perhaps part of the problem was certainly one way for them to bond, Vince supposes. “What do you need from him?” Dan asks. 

“To be told I’m good enough.” Vince doesn’t let himself think about the answer too much. It springs from his chest with the kind of painful honestly only a knee-jerk reaction can bring. "To know for certain I'm what he wants." 

He wonders if he has spent all day looking at Dan with even  _ half _ of the pity with which Dan is currently directing at him. 

Dan shifts, almost uncomfortable with the brutal honesty Vince is demonstrating. Or at least, uncomfortable with how difficult Vince found it to make such honest claims. Cause Vince was not afraid to admit maybe he was a bit of a hypocrite to; he could sit here all day and insist Dan talk about his feelings but the truth of the matter was, he wasn’t that great at doing it either. 

“If it’s any comfort at all, Jones is ruthless with the  _ ‘be yourself at all costs’ _ rhetoric.” Dan says, though it sounds like he’s forcing the words out. “Even if he doesn’t practice what he preaches.” 

“Howard’s already himself.” Vince insists, frowns at whatever point is trying to make. 

“Is he?” 

“Ye--stop wiggling that eyebrow at me--yes he is!” Dan looks stunned, like he hadn’t even realised his eyebrows were acting like the patronising snobs they were. Rising in a silent  _ ‘are you sure’ _ question. Vince continues in his annoyance, “He’s been the same since he was about nine, he’s confident and funny, and a right pain in the arse but he’s…” 

He’s Howard. A man who was unashamedly intense about stationary, who argued with Vince until he was blue in the face about how  _ cool  _ Jazz was. Howard was headstrong and forthright, there was no way he had ever been anything but himself. 

“He’s definitely himself.” Vince repeats; even he hears the uncertainty in his tone. 

Dan must sense that the discussion is coming to an end, Vince is tense and defensive, he can feel it tainting their thus far positive steps forward. The older man doesn’t seem too phased, at least. He’s leveraging himself to his feet. “I don’t know him, but I just thought if he was the same as me, or you, or Jones, then there’s got to be something he’s holding back, right?” 

Vince hates that he’s probably right. It makes sense, and even he couldn’t deny that something in his friend had shifted lately. And all things considered, Howard was as human as the rest of them. He likely had wants and needs that Vince was currently a bit blind to. 

Didn’t mean Vince was okay with the way Dan was turning the table on him. Vince was here to teach Dan lessons not the other way around. He demonstrates this annoyance by firmly averting his eyes. Dan is on his feet finally, after much wincing and manoeuvring, he’s staring down at Vince with furrowed brows and a sense of sympathy permeating the air. 

Vince does not look back. 

Dan sighs like a disgruntled parent and exits the room with no further words. 

***

Thus far in their swapping, Jones found that dialling Vince was a phenomenon in and of itself. 

If emotional whiplash was personified, Vince is what it would look like. From the buzzing excitement he was capable of, to the hollow shell he had sounded like the night before and everything in between. Vince's moods were like oil spills, even over the phone. Once that dam broke then it was guaranteed everything within radius was going to get covered. 

And Vince's sadness had been just as thick and tacky as actual oil, too. 

Jones hadn't really done a great job of cleaning it up at the time; quite selfishly (or rather charitably in this unique situation) he had been more focused on getting back to Howard and correcting that mess of emotion that he'd rather brushed over not only Vince's distress over Howard's reaction but also the struggle the man made of sunshine must be facing over his clashing with Dan. 

Which was an issue all on its own. The accusations made, Dan's cruelty towards him was one thing, but Vince did not deserve any of it. Suddenly, as Jones plonks himself onto the sofa and scrolls through his phone, he's full of regret. Throughout this process he hadn't exactly been providing much support for Vince's plight while he was lost in this alternate world. 

Being uncertain about returning to his own life imminently was the least of his concerns. Because fighting with Dan wasn't new for him, the accusations, the snide comments, the frankly bitchy behaviour. That was part and parcel with what he signed up for when he had taken Dan on like a lost puppy, and now he was realising his own less than desirable behaviour, Jones is more equipped to go home and grovel for this relationship. However, asking Vince to take it on while pretending to be someone he's not and also coping with snippets of news from home? A bit unfair. 

So first things first, Jones decides while dialling, is going to be ensuring that the Vince that came back to Howard was in one piece. He wasn't sure the older man would forgive him if the thing that shattered his little man once and for all was some ridiculous plot. Jones certainly wasn’t going to forgive Dan if he learnt that he was the one to break Vince--knowingly or not.

Amazingly, despite it being just after nine o’clock at night, Vince answers the phone startlingly fast. The dial tone barely completes three rings and the other man appears down the line with a cheerful, “Hi Jones!” Which either means he was waiting for the call, or about to contact Jones himself. 

And there’s the whiplash. 

The hollow shell of a man Jones had spoken to appears to be evaporating. Vince’s cheer was coming back in careful waves. This tittering voice was certainly an improvement on the night before but it was by no means a whole picture; Jones is reminded of the walking mirror ball Vince had been in the nightclub. Personality refracting light in all directions and meaning he was the only thing in the room to be looked at. A natural glow, Vince had, which even over the phone had been obviously dulled. 

This iteration of Vince is animated, he is spilling optimism and enthusiasm down the phone, thick like treacle. It’s not the natural intense joy Jones knows he is capable of, but it’s close. It's better. 

It’s perhaps incredibly telling that Jones’ first reaction to this emotion is not relief but suspicion. 

“Vince…” He greets carefully, wary of what he’s going to be told in the wake of this cheer. What exactly had occurred between the defeat of their last call and now? And where did Dan fit into it. “How are you, everything okay?” 

"Yeah, it's genius." Vince's enthusiasm puts Jones further on edge. That is, until after a momentary pause the other man seems to sense that Jones is waiting for an explanation and he hastily adds, "Oh I didn't-- sorry, Jones. I was supposed to text but everything got so hectic and Dan he--" 

The panic builds, it's a crescendo in his head of noise. _Bad_ noise. The screech of twisted metal clashing and the squeal of a rusted gate. It's high pitched and painful. He can't even formulate the strained _'what the hell happened'_ all he can do is wait for Vince to elaborate. 

"Dan figured me out, Jones."

Which, all possibilities considered, was not the worst thing Vince could have informed him of. For a moment he had considered all sorts of terrifying outcomes, real corkers of Jones' worst nightmares. Dan jumped again. Dan drank himself into hospital. Dan isn't interested in having you back. 

The fact that the older man figures Vince out was, by all means, a kind of relief. 

So there's no reason why it should hit Jones as hard as it does. The news takes him by complete surprise; the floor seems to disappear from below him, leaving him floating in a void space of dread. The world feels as if it has suddenly started turning in the opposite direction to what it should be: backwards and lethargic. It's turning his stomach, weighing him down in his dread. God what must Dan think of him? 

Howard ambles out of the bedroom just in time to hear Jones' sharp intake of breath, and the older man stalls on his way to the kitchen at the sound. He doesn't say anything, but Jones can see the question in his gaze. The ' _ are you okay?'  _ is as loud as it is silent. 

Jones doesn't even bother to answer him, preoccupied as he is dealing with this revaluation. "He knows? How did he… Is he alright?"

"Uh…" Thankfully Vince doesn't seem to mind that Jones only concern is with Dan. Much like Vince's concern yesterday had begun and ended with Howard. "He took it pretty well, considerin'."

That's good news, Dan was flighty and emotional in his own right. Him not having a negative reaction was surely only a positive thing, it means there was potentially something for Jones to salvage when he returns home. It still inspires a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach, though. Vince sounded so happy. Why? What had happened between them now that Dan knew who he really was to inspire such… Joy? 

And why was he so jealous already? Like Vince was about to turn around and announce  _ 'and he likes me better than you'.  _

He had mostly been kidding on the phone days ago, when he'd requested Vince not have sex with Dan but… They had  _ kissed.  _ Part of the act or not, that had happened. Was it a possibility that a romance could have sparked, a very very slim possibility, but it was a possibility nonetheless. Honestly, it hadn't even been a concern for Jones until this very second, he had never really been all that worried about Dan abandoning him for other friends--he wasn't good at maintaining relationships with anyone and it was almost certainly Jones' own resolve that had kept them in company all these years. 

But suddenly, it was a pretty intense fear of his. 

Vince, by all accounts, was an alluring creature and blessed with a supernatural ability to make light of anything. What if he was providing Dan with a much needed injection of positivity where Jones had been failing lately.

Shit he was going to have a breakdown  _ again. _

“Okay.” Jones rasps into the phone. But it must be quite clear that it is not in fact okay. 

Howard isn’t even trying to pretend to wash the dishes from his late night meal anymore. He’s just hovering in the kitchen watching Jones with a barely concealed sense of concern, half his weight is on one foot like he is about to come over and offer comfort. 

Vince too seems to sense the unease, he gives an inquisitive hum, encouraging and curious all in one. For as much as Jones likes to keep himself on this side of unknowable, it seems he is also quite transparent in areas involving Dan Ashcroft.

"What is it Jones, what's bothering you?" Vince asks, so heartfelt in his wondering that it makes Jones jealousy turn to guilt. 

Both of the men privy to this conversation, Vince on the phone and Howard now hovering barely three feet away, would likely think him pretty pathetic for reacting this way. 

It does enter his mind, quickly, sharp, there and gone again in the blink of an eye like a lightning strike among the dark clouds; lie. Jones could just lie. It wasn't like either of these people knew him well enough that they'd be able to pick his falsehoods from thin air like perhaps Dan could, Jones was a fantastic liar. But as soon as the flash of the idea fades the rumble of his good conscience is following close behind. 

This plan had been a joint effort between the both of them to fix very real problems in their respective personal lives. Vince had thus far, to Jones' knowledge, been nothing but painfully honest with him. The older doppelganger didn't  _ have  _ to disclose that kiss during the party night. But he had. 

He owed him the same courtesy. 

"I just… You sound quite cheery and he's not usually that pleasant." The confession tears from him. He tries to ignore Howard's confused frown from across the room. "Not unless he's…"

Thankfully, while Howard remains oblivious to Jones insinuation, Vince picks up on it immediately. "He's been anything but pleasant," The other man snorts in amusement. "God,  _ pleasant  _ and Dan don't exist in the same dictionary, really, do they?" 

"No, not at all." 

"And if you're worried about us getting cosy, you're barking up the wrong tree." Vince says it with a sigh that seems perhaps too fond for the short period of time they have known each other. "We're not conspiring or leaving you behind or nothin', don't worry."

To say that he's relieved is an understatement. The breath that had until that point been held tightly in his chest is released on a helpless giggle. 2 parts self-deprecating, and 1 part grateful for Vince's honesty, Jones can finally find the humour in the situation. "Might be something to this clone business," Jones jokes lightly. "Seems like you can read my mind well enough."

“No, I just had the same fear.” 

The silence that passes between them is companionable; warm and comforting. A Moment to appreciate that they were alike enough to share the same worry about how they’d get on with their respective other halves following this rather outrageous plot of theirs. 

It's Vince, naturally, that finds his voice first. “Though he isn’t…  _ awful _ . Once I realised he’s more of an actions person than a words person, he’s easier to understand.” 

“I don’t… What do you mean?” Jones isn’t so confused about Vince’s explanation of Dan. He is correct, the man is more likely to demonstrate how he’s feeling through the way he behaves than by talking about it. What confuses Jones is what Vince may have potentially experienced of it. 

“No matter how mean he got--” Which does make Jones wince, first hand knowledge of what Dan is like when his ego is wounded and he feels backed into a corner. Going for the throat was his MO. “--he’d always appear a little while later trying to make up for it.” 

Despite the fact Vince can't see him, Jones nods his head. On more than one occasion, he had sulked away from a disagreement only to have Dan to literally sidle up to him and try and impress his apologies on him in a physical way. He glances across the flat, Howard elbow deep in washing his dishes now that the dramatic part of the conversation has passed, and wonders how Howard apologises after a fight. 

Based off of what he's learning? He doesn't. Neither Vince nor Howard do sincere apologies. 

Not that Dan does sincere ones either. 

"Yeah, you can say what you like about Dan, he's almost as good at pouting as he is at drinking." Jones sighs, but it's a fond thing. He can just imagine him, brows furrowed and wide eyes. Trying his best to garner sympathy. "Problem being you never know if he means it."

"Oh, I think he meant it." Vince says it with a snicker and Jones' heart beats in double time. Not that he has time to decipher the reaction, Vince is still talking. "I think you know he means it too. Which is half the problem, cause he isn't saying much of anything. Good or bad. An' you've gotten so used to translating it that sometimes the message is coming out all jumbled or it's losing some letters in the process. Which makes it even harder 'cause you know he  _ means  _ what he says--or does rather. When he’s saying and doing the bad things, it's more painful. Does that make sense?" 

"A bit." Jones brings a thumb to his mouth. Chews on his cuticles with his anxiety. "But what does that mean for you, are you trying to say he’s done something to you? Is that why he was apologising? Cause I know he can be… intense.” 

“Intense doesn’t cover it.” And the way Vince utters the words suddenly convinced Jones that in the interim between last night and today--just 24 hours--something had gone horribly wrong for Vince. He finds his imagination running wild with the possibilities. Vince had opened this call indicating Dan had been  _ mean  _ but how mean was mean and was it ever not just  _ mean  _ but violent? 

Dan had never raised a hand to Jones. Ever. But that didn’t automatically negate him from being capable of it in this very specific situation.

That being said, Dan was all action no words, as Vince put it. Maybe it wasn’t the initial unkindness that had been contact based but rather the comfort. Which makes Jones feel just as sick, he needs the clarification. “Has he been… physical with you,  _ at all _ ?” 

Truthfully, Jones doesn’t know which he’d rather hear;  _ he hit me _ or  _ he cuddled me _ . Which would be harder for him to come to terms with? Both. Either. 

And he’s not the only one desperate for the reply. There’s a sharp crack from the kitchen, the sound of porcelain hitting the counter. Jones looks over to where Howard is still poised by the sink; he hasn’t turned, but his back is stiff. It’s rather obvious he had been keeping one ear on the conversation this entire time and it seems now they’ve reached the point that requires  _ all  _ of his attention. 

The fact he’s pretending not to be listening is only a little bit funny. 

Jones has no doubt that Howard likes to  _ think  _ he’d step in and be the hero if Dan had been treating Vince badly, but they both know that wouldn’t happen, Jones however, has no qualms putting the man in his place should he need to. 

Or maybe Howard is just as worried as Jones that anymore alleyway affection had occurred--not that Howard knew about that first kiss… shit. That was going to be a conversation they’d need to have. 

“He’s been…” Vince struggles for the words. Jones’ stomach ties itself in knots. “A little affectionate, but I don’t think that’s anything to do with me. I think that’s just how he is, after he’d upset me he’d come along and sit close to me or he’d drop his head on my shoulder. It wasn’t like when he thought I was you at least, when he thought I was you he was climbing into bed with me and all sorts.” 

Which as weird as it sounds, does comfort Jones some. Dan was a more physical person, and if he was perhaps relaxed enough to initiate contact with Vince then he wasn’t as affected by the switch as he first thought. Not only that but there apparently is a line drawn between the Jones affection and the Vince affection. It’s nice to hear. He sighs a breath of relief and Howard must pick up on it; he casts a shy look over his shoulder and sends a smile to Jones. 

“Though, in the interest of honesty he did…” Oh god that pause again. “He did kiss me again.” 

The eye contact with Howard suddenly feels painful. 

Howard surely knows, the way his face falls, that something has just been said on the phone. That something has just reached into Jones’ chest and  _ squeezed. _ “Jones, you okay?” Howard asks, hushed from across the room, but Jones doesn’t really hear him. 

Everything is ringing. He can feel his breathing pick up once more, like it had in the bedroom. Blinking rapidly, he tries to clear the fuzziness from his vision and steady his existence back into something understandable. Jones has physically removed the phone away from his ear. He can hear Vince is still talking, likely explaining, but he can’t discern any words. He’s dropped his head into his free hand. He needs to just breathe for a moment.

Howard is at his side before he can understand what’s happened, his sleeves still rolled up, his palms still damp from the soapy kitchen water--he wants to reach out but it’s clear he’s still struggling to do anything of that sort. Instead he repeats, “Are you okay?” 

From the phone they both hear Vince’s exclamation of  _ ‘Is that Howard?’  _ and the man himself dips in an attempt to snatch the phone from him; Jones moves it out of his reach--this should not be the first time he and Vince talk after this ordeal. No, they needed to hang on until they could see each other and talk seriously about their problems. Not chat about Jones and Dan and their relationship angst. 

A deep breath later and Jones lifts his head. Howard is frozen, arm half outstretched but stock still, his eyes wide where he considers Jones’ tense frame. It’s with utter defiance that Jones pressed the phone back to his ear and  _ growls.  _ “Why the fuck did he do that?” 

It’s not an accusation. Okay it might be a little bit of an accusation. But Jones is feeling betrayed and confused. The  _ ‘he thought I was you’ _ excuse may have worked last time but twice was a pattern and he wanted to know  _ right now _ what Vince had that Jones didn’t. 

Why would Dan tell him to stop being that way with him years ago only to reignite the flame now when  _ Vince  _ enters the scene. 

“Tell me what happened.” He demands after no further words come. He can feel Vince’ anxiety through the phone like waves crashing against a cliffside. 

Vince hastens to explain at the speed of light. “He was upset, Jones, really upset, and I think he wanted to lash out, I-- I wasn’t letting him drink so he…”

Almost as soon as his anger had reached boiling point, it evaporated again. “He used you as a punishment for me.” 

Fuck he was an idiot. 

It wouldn’t be the first time something like this had occurred. Dan had a talent for taking things in the world around him and weaponising them. Silence. Alcohol. Jones’ own history. Their work. You name it, Dan could twist it into something poisonous. Especially when he was feeling betrayed. Jones remembers intimately how bad their big fights could get, how Dan would snip and pick and find ways to turn the most inanimate and harmless things into ways to hurt those around him. 

Not that Jones was any better, living with Dan, you learnt how to give as good as you got. 

“What happened?” He asks again, softer. “And are you okay?” 

Vince gives a cackle of a laugh, a little relief and genuine humour all mixed together. “I’m fine you idiot, are you okay? I’m not exactly proud of myself, it’s okay to be mad at us.” 

“Yeah but is it worth it?” Honestly, probably not. It was not okay, that Dan’s initial reaction was to try and fuck his way to revenge. But that was a bone to pick with Dan, not his unwitting victim. Clearly Vince had enough sense of mind to stop it. “I can yell at him when I see him again.” 

“You can but… I mean, afterwards he…” Vince pauses, Jones wants to reach through the phone and shake him, get him to stop pausing so much and just say what he means. “Just talk to him before you yell. Hear him out, I don’t think he ever sets out to hurt you--” Jones snorts. “--okay maybe he does, but I think when he gets a chance to think about his actions he regrets them. Just… let him talk.” 

And he supposes it’s the same thing he’s about to ask of Vince, so he nods his head. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that.” 

The longer this conversation goes on, the more and more confused Howard seems to look beside him. It’s clear he is trying to piece together all of the context with only half of the conversation; and whatever conclusion Howard is reaching is draining all the colour from his features. Jones briefly considers asking him to leave, considering his next topic, it would only make him feel worse. But he doubts the man would listen. So he just carries on. 

“But you’ve got to give Howard the same benefit.” Jones says. Howard blanches further, as expected. He stalls. For a moment it looks like he might reach for the phone and snatch it from Jones’ hands, but then he decides he doesn’t even want to be in the room as this conversation. Howard huffs and struts out of hearing range, locking himself in the bathroom instead. 

Vince hasn’t said anything for a long time. It’s not a stunned silence though, more a thoughtful one. “Is this where you tell me Howard’s kissed you too?” 

And why does he sound like he’s expecting that. 

“No,” Jones says sincerely. “No he hasn’t been kissing me, don’t worry.” But he has been cuddling him. Expressing physical affection the likes of which Vince isn’t getting very often at all. Should he mention it, or was that Howard’s confession to make. It wasn’t as serious as a kiss by any means, friends can hug, friends don’t snog. 

Jones decides not to mention it. 

“No, we’ve just been talking and I know he has a lot to say.” Jones says; hopes his guilt over the concealed facts isn’t too obvious. “And you need to let him say it, I think.  _ Any  _ way he needs to say it.” 

Vince is humming, a thoughtful noise. That’s certainly a new habit, Jones thinks. The first night they had met, Vince hadn't taken a breath long enough to gather much of his ideas before just putting voice to his thought processes. He was a talker; but it seems, now, he is taking the time to not only consider his words but also their impact. How they might come across. He’s considering himself in relations to others. Jones smirks as he waits for the next dialogue to begin, proud of Dan for seemingly teaching Vince some lessons too. 

“Suppose we better organise when to swap back then, if I’ve got so much to hear.” Jones snorts his amusement. Vince's responding breathy laughter on the other end is a relief in and of itself. They were both ready for home now he thinks. Home and New beginnings. “I’ll just come back to the flat tomorrow morning?” 

“Actually, make it around lunch?” Jones casts a longing glance at the closed bathroom door. Assumes Howard is in there with his ear pressed to the wood. “I’m fucking knackered and I might actually sleep tonight.” 

“You should be so lucky.” Vince teases.

“Piss off!” Is the joking reply, Jones gives. “Get off the phone and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There’s a cheerful cry of a farewell, and then the line goes dead. Jones is left, mostly on his own, to consider just what he’s going to say to Dan tomorrow when he gets to go home. To wonder how Howard was going to take the switchback. He sits there wondering for all of five minutes before he sighs; forces the anxiety out of his chest, and he heads back for the bedroom. 

He hadn’t been kidding; he was exhausted.

***

“You ratted me out pretty quickly.” 

Vince jumps out of his skin; his whole body jolting and the beat of his heart tripling with the shock of Dan’s sudden reappearance. 

The only reason he had relaxed into the phone call that much had been because of the assumption that Dan was in bed for the night. He certainly hadn’t made a peep of noise; so Vince had felt safe in the knowledge he was likely passed out. 

Yet there he is, shoulder resting against the doorway, frowning hard at Vince. 

“How long have you been standing there?” Vince asks, hates how it’s with all the conviction of a scolded infant. Voice wavering. Hands twisting anxiously. 

“Long enough to know you do, in fact, tell him  _ everything  _ about our interactions.” It’s incredible how hard Dan tries to mask the hurt in his tone; but doesn’t quite manage it. Not that Vince has to hear him to know he’s put out, he can see it written on Dan’s face like the lines of a script. 

Vince oddly feels guilty. “Don’t you think he has a right to know?” He offers. “Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?” 

Dan’s silence speaks for him. As does the fact he continues to talk without acknowledging what Vince has said. “How is he, then? Enjoying life without me.” 

“Back to the self-doubt, I see.” Vince rolls his eyes; he leverages himself into a sitting position--having lain down for his own bedtime as soon as Dan had left the room, it suddenly felt like there was still more talking to go before they could call it a night. “He’s fine. Missing home I think, my Howard is only a breath of fresh air as long as he’s new. After a while people find him… stale.” 

“Not for you though.” Dan points out, those fucking eyebrows of his are dancing a charade on his face. “You’ve known  _ your  _ Howard half your life, and you still seem to find him interesting.” 

“That’s different.” 

“Is it?” 

Silence stretches on. And okay, maybe Vince knows what Dan means. Other people get bored of Howard quickly, that’s sort of his whole shtick, but Vince never has. Not once, even when he pretends to. It’s rather telling even from the outside perspective of a complete stranger like Dan is. 

“Are you so interested in my love life because you’re frightened for your own?” Vince asks--it’s a calculated move, meant entirely to make the older man leave him alone--and the way Dan’s eyes widen in fear is enough to make him smirk. “God you’re  _ so  _ transparent, why Jones didn’t figure you out years ago is beyond me.” 

“It’s  _ beyond  _ me how someone so mouthy hasn’t blurted out his feelings to his idiot best friend by now.” Dan snaps back, but there’s not real heat to it. The man is fighting a losing battle against his own smirk. 

It’s new, and yet intimately familiar; this biting back and forth. New in the sense that, this is the most interaction he has gotten from Dan since this started. The most fun at least. Dan isn’t shying away anymore, he is revelling in Vince’s bitchy attitude and biting back with as good as he gets. It’s amusing, and it makes sense. In each of their respective relationships they are the mouthy ones. They’re the bitches, the sarcastic halves. When put together of course it’s spitting fireworks whenever they get going. The fact that they can take this meanness and use it as a way to poke fun at one another it’s… well refreshing. 

It reminds him of how Howard used to be when they were younger. Recently Howard didn’t have much of a backbone. He wouldn’t bite back as much as he did rise above Vince’s antics completely. But at the zoo, in the old days, Howard would have had no problem verbally sparring with Vince until they were both blue in the face and giggling. 

So this was nice. It was a chunk of home when he needed it so badly.

“Don’t be snapping at me, you great northern bulldog.” Dan snorts his amusement at the exclamation. Vince watches him carefully; he had mentioned that Vince reminded him of a younger Jones...was he feeling nostalgic over their interactions too? “What you doing up anyway, thought you’d gone to bed ages ago?” 

“Why would you think that?” 

Vince narrows his eyes, suddenly suspicious of this moment being the one Dan chose to make a re-entrance. “Because you have this  _ infuriating  _ habit of walking out of a room without telling anyone what you’re doing.” 

“It’s no one else's business what I’m doing.” Dan returns the narrowed gaze but again makes no move to actually answer any of Vince’s questions. “We can’t all be sinfully co-dependent like you.” 

“Piss off. You’re  _ so  _ co-dependent, you just hide it better.” The silence is as good as an agreement. Vince leaps on the opportunity and pats his hand at the empty cushion to his right. “Come here for a second anyway.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I need to talk to you.” 

“Why can’t you talk to me from here.” 

“Why can’t you ever just do as you're told?” Yet Dan refuses to move. Vince is forced to sigh with all the energy of an impatient Howard Moon waiting for Vince to get dressed in the morning. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Jones will be coming back, I just wanted to see how you’re feeling about that.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say. As soon as feelings are brought up, again, Dan clams up like a frigid mollusc. “Fine. It’s fine.”

“Dan.” 

“It’s  _ all  _ fine.” 

“Dan, have you thought about what you’re going to say to him?” 

The denial dies in his throat; Vince sees it happen. Dan’s jaw drops open, intending to plough through with his insistence but the words stage a revolt. They catch. Dan has to swallow around their betrayal and he’s left simply gaping. It’s perhaps because he knows Vince won’t let him get away with it, or maybe just because he knows for certain that no matter what he does, thanks to Vince’s sharing with Jones, this conversation is going to happen. 

Or maybe, just maybe, he is accepting he wants to talk about it. “I’ll figure it out.” 

“I can help.” Vince makes the offer like someone might offer treats to a stray cat. Steady but hesitant. Ensuring they aren’t going to get bitten in the process of offering kindness. 

To his credit, Dan seems to think about this. But almost as soon as he gives Vince the benefit of thought he is snatching it away again. “No, thanks, I’m fine.” He says, firmly. 

Vince opens his mouth to add but Dan is mumbling something about being tired and he’s gone. 

***

Jones, for the first time since this whole plot began, does not try to chase Howard down. It’s a combination of being genuinely  _ exhausted _ and not wanting to smother the older man with so much overt attention. It wouldn’t be good for him to always be chased in order to speak his mind, because Jones can be almost certain that Vince likely isn’t going to be doing any chasing. 

But, to his complete surprise, Howard must be learning some lessons. 

Jones is sliding beneath Vince’s sheets when the northern man appears in the doorway, about as awkward as a giraffe on roller-skates the way he hovers just.. Looking at Jones as if he was going to be able to sense what he wanted from where he’s laying down. 

“What Howard?” Jones has to demand eventually. 

It kickstarts him somewhat. Howard slides the bedroom door shut behind him and steps further into the room. He reaches for his perfectly folded pyjamas and begins the process of his own bedtime routine. Personally, Jones had stuck with another one of Vince’s soft t-shirts (that he’d developed quite a fondness for) and his pants. 

Despite having been given the opportunity to talk Howard changes in silence. It isn’t until he is settled on the end of his own bed that he finds his voice. “Is Vince okay?” 

Jones, for a moment, is confused. “He’s fine.” 

“Jones,” Howard actually looks, well, furious. Not like on the street furious, like he was questioning every life choice that led him here. This was proper anger, the kind of anger that spoke to protectiveness. “If Dan’s done something to him--” 

“No! God, Howard, no, nothing happened. They’re fine. Vince is fine.” Jones can see how he reached that conclusion. With only Jones’ half of the discussion to work off it was likely a bit like trying to paint the Mona Lisa blindfolded. 

The picture was going to come out wonky. 

If anything, though, this reassurance only serves to concern Howard more. “Then what was said because you looked… and you said something  _ physical  _ had happened which I thought meant…” All the colour drains from Howard’s face. He sags where he sits, subconsciously, one hand rises to clutch at his chest--right over his heart--as if he was in physical pain. “Jesus Christ don’t tell me they’ve had sex. I can’t--” 

Jones doesn’t even need to think about it, he tosses the covers back and hurries across the room in three quick steps to land himself very much in Howard’s space. “Fucking hell you’re full of negativity aren’t you?” He accuses playfully, literally launching himself against the other man as if he could hug the negative thoughts out of him. “Just shut your brain off for  _ five minutes  _ and let me talk.” 

Thankfully Howard is so preoccupied trying to stop Jones falling out of his lap, wrapping his arms around his little body and holding him up, that he can’t come up with an argumentative response. 

And after a moment or two more holding him. The tension leaks from his frame. 

Jones carefully extracts himself once the contact has had it’s desired effect, but he doesn’t go far. He settles on the bed next to Howard and carefully plants his hand in between his shoulder blades on his back. Soothingly, he begins to rub small circles there as he talks. “One thing you need to understand about Dan is he’s very… He acts before he thinks. And a lot of the time, his character makes him do things he doesn’t actually mean.” 

“This isn’t comforting me in the slightest,” 

“Well, let me finish.” Jones scolds. But his hands never stop moving. Petting. Keeping Howard grounded with the weight of his hand. “He  _ did  _ do something to--with--Vince. They didn’t have sex, it wasn’t violent but… it was intimate.” Howard tenses. “But… To be honest I don’t think it’s really my place to talk about all of that with you. Because how Vince experienced it will be all his own story, and me putting my thoughts about it all in your head is just gonna fuck you up, so. Know he’s fine, he’s safe, and tomorrow, he’ll tell you what his time with Dan has been like in his own words.” 

“How do you know he’ll tell me,” Howard asks, small and scared. “What if he just lies.” 

“I don’t think Vince’s sense of guilt would let him keep this from you.” Jones admits. “Not after everything we’ve all been through.” 

Howard takes this on board, finally, after the few days they’ve had, he seems to be developing a sense of trust with Jones. 

Jones keeps going while he still can. “I haven’t told him much about this.” He says, and when Howard only frowns at him, confused, Jones presses insistently with his hands, reminding Howard that they’re in close enough contact for him to suddenly stiffen again. “Because I think that’s your conversation to have with him, yeah?” 

Shyly, Howard nods his head. Jones thinks that’s enough embarrassing him for the day. 

“Okay, so he’s coming back tomorrow, about lunch time I think. Then obviously I’ll go home and… yeah.” 

It seems like that’s all there is to say but Howard is muttering. “You’re not going to be gone forever though are you?” 

At this, Jones snorts a laugh. “Don’t be stupid, Howard of course not. You think Vince would let me leave your lives now?” 

In this at least they can agree; the novelty was likely never going to wear off for Vince. He would surely only adore the whimsy of this for the rest of his life. “God, no, he’s going to love having you around.” 

“And I wasn’t kidding either.” Sure he had done the trick, Jones finally takes his hands off Howard. Sets them in his lap. “We’re going to make some awesome tracks together the three of us, as soon as all of this has sorted itself out.” Howard agrees with the small--but bright--grin he gives, and with that Jones announces, “Okay then I’m getting into bed because I’m tired.” 

“You mean you’ll actually sleep tonight?” 

“Hopefully.” 

“What about the…” Howard starts but stalls himself. Seems to know better than to pry any further. Jones already knows where he was going though; this man wasn’t exactly the master of subtlety.

“The nightmares?” Howard doesn’t have to nod his head, nor give any kind of verbal confirmation this is what he had been going to ask. It’s sparkling in his eyes; curiosity glinting like broken Christmas lights. Jones shrugs his shoulders. “If they come then I wake up and at least I tried.” 

Without even knowing exactly what he’s comforting, Howard still tries. It’s heart-warming really. “Sometimes Vince gets them you know,” He says. “Not constantly, but sometimes... “ 

“Oh yeah? How does he normally deal with them?” It’s just a conversational question but the older man flushes such an adorable shade of pink, Jones instantly knows he needs to hear the answer. “Howard?” 

“Uh…” The regret is palpable. “Well he used to, when he was a bit younger, just…” Howard clears his throat. “Get into bed with me usually.” 

And somehow this answer doesn’t surprise Jones at all .”Well I think he’s already gonna be a bit miffed we hugged earlier lets not add getting into bed with each other to the list.” 

“No I wasn’t saying--” 

“I know.” Jones snickers at how  _ panicked  _ Howard looked in that moment. “I know, but it’s good to know you have some experience dealing with the sleepless.” 

“Hmm.” Howard is just watching him as he moves about the room, Jones now taking this opportunity to retreat back towards his bed. “We were a right pair in the early days, I’m a restless sleeper anyway so if he was awake we’d just… stay up all night.” 

Howard must have gotten over his sleeping problem, it seemed, Jones hadn’t witnessed him struggle since it had been here. But he finds himself curious enough to ask, “What would he dream about?” 

“His childhood, mostly.” And both of them know that Vince is not a secretive man, it is perhaps the only reason either of them were so comfortable answering on his behalf. Because he would no doubt do it if he were here. 

And it’s exactly why Jones has the bravery to say. “We have that in common then.” 

Howard pauses. Drums his fingers against his own thigh as he builds some courage and then asks, “Was it… bad? I don’t mean to pry, if you’d rather not-- I’m sorry.” 

“No, it’s fine uh..” Jones is the one clearing his throat then. Dislodging words that don’t want to come forth. “Well I mean. I’m sure you figured out my mum and dad weren’t really around. They were young when they ‘ad me. Real young.” Jones makes a point not to look at Howard as he talks. “Dad took off not long after I was born, mum couldn’t cope and she…” he doesn’t need to fill in the rest, Howard makes his own conclusions. “I was in care by the time I was five and already labelled as a problem child-- it isn’t a great combination.” 

Jones was never a problem, not really. He just didn’t see the world like everyone else did. Didn’t function like other children might. He heard music in almost every sound but he still found the rest of the world  _ abrasive  _ and  _ overwhelming.  _ Losing any sense of family at a young age hadn’t helped with his already warped sense of trust, it meant growing up Jones had never gotten on with other children. He didn’t get on with many of the adults either. Meaning as he got older and faced more twists and turns in his life he hadn’t coped well. 

He had no one to fall back on. To prop him up when things got too much. 

“Usually it’s about her.” Jones says, in a rare bout of honesty. “She was never a  _ bad  _ mum just.. A bit lost I think.” He shrugs. “But she’s always there, mixed in with some of the more recent memories I have. The addict ones.” 

Howard nods his head like he understands but Jones doesn’t think he ever could. This world Vince lives in is seemingly untouched by such things.

Frankly, Jones feels as if he’s tainting it just by being here. 

“After my Grandmother died I went back to the system for a little while but… I got lost too, got involved with people I shouldn't have and developed habits that weren't just bad but horrific.” He looks to his feet. “Saw a lot of things no one should ever see let alone a kid, and it stuck with me. One day maybe I’ll move on enough that they’ll stop but for now this is my normal.” 

“How long has it been?” 

“Since I last took drugs or since the nightmares started?” 

Howard appears startled; and Jones isn’t sure if it’s because he’s willing to talk about it or because Howard himself is being encouraged to ask. He gapes like a fish for all of three second before a fierce determination comes over him. “Both, I suppose.” 

“The nightmares started just after she died,” Jones is gripping fistfuls of Vince’s sheets like it will keep him grounded. “And I last got high over eight years ago.” 

Howard thinks over this information. It's a sickening few minutes of silence. The way Howard tips his head when he thinks looks a lot like his ‘bragging’ face. His chin up, looking down his nose; Jones feels two inches tall under that look. Until Howard baffles him by saying. “I hope he tells you he’s proud of you.” 

“What?” 

“Dan. You said he knows all of this already?” 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah he does.” 

“Has he ever told you he’s proud of you?” Howard asks seriously. “Because he should.” 

“Well,” And in all honesty, Jones knows he has. In his own way. “Not verbally, but he does… he has a way of expressing things. It might not make sense to people but I know what he means.” 

He’s suddenly reminded of many things all at once. Of Dan finding him with a bloody nose in the bathroom only a month after they’d moved in together, of cleaning him up and telling him never to do anything like that again. He’d never pried, and Jones had never revealed that the fight was with an ex-friend-slash-dealer. But Dan had been there for him anyway. Dan had been there from him when he’d been awake three days straight, had pried cold cups of coffee from his hands and called him an _ ‘utter wanker insistent on killing himself through caffeine’ _ and literally hauled him to bed. Dan may not say he’s proud of Jones for all that he’s overcome, but when he shoves him to bed with an amused quirk to his lips. Or when he hands him water instead of coffee. When he follows him to his gigs and says ‘ _ that was pretty good for you’ _ ... that’s his way of expressing it. 

Fuck Jones has been so blind. 

“Yes. he does.” He says with more certainty. “He tells me he’s proud of me all the time.” 

“Good.” Howard seems comforted by this fact. He slides into bed. “Because Vince makes me proud all the time and I’m sure he knows it.” 

In that at least, he’s sure it’s true to some extent. Howard seems like the kind to tell his little man he’s doing a good job even if he wasn’t; keep him pleased and all that. Though, he has to resist the urge to point out that maybe Vince would have known Howard was proud once over--but he certainly doesn’t know it at the moment. 

Instead of fighting that battle, Jones simply settles back into bed once more. “So I guess we’ll be able to tell them all of this tomorrow won’t we?” 

"I suppose we will.” 

***

One thing that Vince will not miss about Jones’ living situation is the limited options for clothing.

When he finally decides he’s ready to settle for the night and Dan has not yet emerged from the bedroom--again, Vince knows he is going to have to go in there and get himself something to wear. He can’t sleep in jeans, and as much as he could sleep in just his pants and his shirt (lord knows Dan wouldn't mind) he also wants the excuse to check Dan is still alright. 

So he shuffles into the room; acting like Jones himself might and not bothering to knock before he’s pressing in, and to his utter surprise Dan is not in the bed but propped by a makeshift desk in the corner. The man is clearly very awake and he’s scribbling almost frantically into a notebook. 

Dan pauses his writing, scowls--though with no intensity--up at where Vince enters. 

Neither of them say a word. They simply size each other up. For once, Vince refuses to be the one to initiate conversation, so instead he raises one defiant eyebrow. Cocks his hip and folds his arms over his chest to paint himself as the walking manifestation of ‘ _ what are you going to do about it?’ _ . 

Dan opts to do nothing apparently. He turns to his notebook once more. The scratch of his pen is the soundtrack to Vince entering the room further and beginning to search through stacks of what he thinks is Jones’s clothing. 

Eventually, it's Dan that breaks. “Have you thought about what  _ you’re  _ going to say to your other half tomorrow?” 

“Not a clue.” Vince answers, keeping up with his earlier declaration of being honest when asked things. Dan seems to take this on board and smirks at him. “But  _ your  _ other half said I had some listening to do so I’ll probably figure it out while he’s talking.” 

“See,” Dan sighs, and the sound manages to be sarcastic and sincere in one confused mess. “The problem there is,  _ you  _ told Jones  _ I’m  _ gonna say things.” 

“Because you should.” 

Dan glares at him. Vince glares back. 

“I’ve been trying to..” He nods at the notebook, and not for the first tome Vince struggles to understand what he’s trying to say. The older man nods at the notebook again, Vince feels his own face contort in a frown. In the end, Dan snatches the notebook and offers it to Vince.

“What?” 

Dan waves the writings around, Vince still makes no move to grab for it. “Read it.” 

“Why.” He asks instead, and this wasn’t even an attempt to get Dan to admit something. He simply genuinely didn’t understand what was going on. 

“Please read it, Vince.” Dan insists. “You’ve already read all my other nonsense anyway.” 

Suddenly, it clicks. Dan was writing something  _ for  _ Jones. Which intrigues him. Naturally, he complies as soon as the context pleases him, he steps forward and takes the notebook, scans his eyes over the page. It takes a second to properly consume the words, he has to roll some of them around in his mind tank before he fully comprehends the meaning. The context. Exactly the kind of thing Dan had wanted to say for god knows how long but hadn’t been able to find his voice to say any of it. 

This, while not using his words in the way Vince had meant for three days, was still meeting the intention. Dan was compromising, and Vince was proud of him. 

When he’s done he lifts his gaze to Dan and beams at him. “It’s perfect.” 

“Think it’ll work?” 

Vince nods his head proudly; offers the notebook back like it is made of spun glass. Delicately and with respect. “I think it’s definitely a start.” Which is all either of them can hope for really. “And for the record, I don’t think the rest of it was nonsense either. I might not get it, but it was beautiful.” 

Dan seems to share Howard’s struggle for taking a genuine compliment. He just sniffs and goes back to his notebook. Vince, recognising the conversation was over, turns back to the wardrobe and continues looking for something to sleep in. 

“You’re going to be fine tomorrow.” Dan says. When Vince turns he’s not looking up either. “I know you insist you’re this naïve sort of… childlike person but, I think you’ve got a decent head on your shoulders. You’re going to be just fine.” Vince is gobsmacked. Dan keeps going, “And if not, we’ve always got a sofa you can sleep on.” 

That might be the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, but Vince can’t help but make a joke. It was his default setting. “I’m not sure I want to third wheel whatever kinky relationship you and Jones make together.” 

The humour is accepted, and Dan chuckles. “Here,” He says, moving swiftly on, he scoops up an abandoned shirt from the floor--one of  _ Dan’s  _ abandoned shirts--and tosses it at Vince. “Jones usually sleeps in them when he’s feeling a bit out of sorts. Might help you as well.” 

“Thanks… Goodnight then.” 

“Goodnight, Vince.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in particular dedicated to my Boosh wife, keeping me going when the muse plays hard to get. 
> 
> This is it guys. It's official, tomorrow, the mis-matched pairs will be swapping back. And that's surely going to be a smooth journey... right? 
> 
> Massive love and hugs for everyone still following along, reading, and commenting. I adore you all <3


	13. Is it so wrong, to crave recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rocky start to a long-awaited reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a smaller chapter than is typical for this particular tale, simply because in editing I felt like this made more sense as a small, filler chapter ready to set up the next few big lads we have coming our way! There are only three chapters left guys, things are finally coming to a head here in this little story :D

Of all the ways that Jones expects to be drawn back to reality, it isn't with the gentle call of his name. He's far more accustomed to a sharp slap of panic; a jolt of surprise forcing him back into the waking world. Jones had calming himself after an unconscious ordeal down to an absolute silence. By now, springing to seated is commonplace. 

This is not how he wakes up today. 

Today, Jones' name is repeated to him two or three times, it's being muttered softly like the speaker themselves held great respect for the words. It's the same way someone might breathe a prayer.

For a moment the tone is familiar too. Before he can stop it, Jones is breaking into a contented smile, because he knows that voice trying to gently coax him from his rest. The way the syllables of his name sound in that accent, it can only really be one person. 

Unusual for Dan to take the gentle rousing route as opposed to the 'crashing into your space with zero consideration' route, but Jones isn't going to complain. Honestly, it was just a relief to be back somewhere familiar. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that didn't put him at odds with his own identity and make him feel horrifically out of place. 

Except, the picture in Jones' still sleep-addled mind doesn't quite add up. Not the longer he takes to think about it. 

The sheets he is coddled in smell like perfume, not cologne. There is a hint of smoke in the air but it's faint, not the stench of two inhabitants being avid nicotine addicts. Instead, there's the faint smell of leather-bound books and Old Spice. Hairspray. The coconutty tint of moisturiser. 

Even the voice. It's a lot more rounded than he is used to. It isn't the sharpened bite of a man who tried to smother his northern roots to appear more professional and understood in a competitive writing environment. It's rather the opposite. This hushed voice still inflects in a way that exposes the fact they are not born and bred in the country's capital. 

Not Dan, _Howard_. 

"You better have a fucking good reason for waking me up, Moon." Jones makes a point to grumble the words, but he can't help that his mouth betrays him and forms a smirk too. All he can do to combat this blatant backstabbing is to turn his face into the fluffy mountain of Vince's pillows. Maybe he can recapture the sleep that had been so wrongfully stolen from him. 

Irritatingly, Howard does appear to have a good reason, "It's eleven." 

And this is the wakeup call he is used to. A slap of urgency that snatches his breath and ensures that he can't remain lying here with his eyes closed no matter how much he might want to. Jones' eyes fly open. He shoots to sitting. There is a real chance of him going tumbling to the floor with how he attempts to scramble to his feet. "What do you mean its eleven?" He demands. 

"I mean it's eleven o'clock." Howard has the audacity to repeat the phrase to him as if Jones is the one going mad here. The bewildered expression the older man wears doesn't budge as Jones turns to face the analogue clock (it's not that he doesn't believe him he just needs to see it) and curses out loud because Howard is right. 

It's just gone 11 am. 

"I've been asleep for over twelve hours." Which, of all the things that could have shocked him about this revelation, it is the length of time he managed to sleep uninterrupted that really shakes him. "Shit," 

"I didn't want to wake you," Howard explains like a scolded schoolboy; dripping with guilt and shame. "With what you said last night I assumed you might be grateful for a few extra hours sleep."

It is sweet of him, but Jones hasn't been awake long enough after his veritable _coma_ to properly process how sweet that is. He is instead pitched on the side of irritating panic. "Vince is due back, Howard, I should have been up hours ago!" 

"Well, why didn't you say that last night!" Unsurprisingly, Howard is not at all phased by the manifestation of a more bratty side to Jones. If anything he appears more comfortable with it than the sincerity of the past few days. "I suppose I better get a coffee made before you find more reasons to get annoyed at me." 

"Yeah, I suppose you better had." 

With that snapped agreement, they stand, almost chest to chest with how Jones had leapt from the bed, and glaring at each other. Howard cracks first, the snort of amusement is entirely ungrateful and it makes laughter spill from Jones in an equally clumsy manner. It's a nice non-verbal way to confirm that there was no real animosity, just a lot of anxious-excited energy ricocheting off every available space in their respective brains.

"Vince is coming home." Jones reminds Howard once more, and they share a nod before parting ways. 

Somehow they should prepare for this. 

***

Surprising to everyone, including Vince himself, he doesn't attempt a lie-in on this Sunday morning. 

Vince is awake almost with the rising sun and pours plenty of sugary coffee into his throat to stop himself going crazy in the interim between waking and the time he is supposed to leave. If Dan were up, it might have been easy to pass the time. Him not being obviously awake, Vince naturally assumes he is asleep and therefore can't do any of the things he would normally have done to prepare himself for his journey home. 

For a start, it has been days since Vince went through the effort of doing his hair _properly._ Once the cat was out of the bag, he still hadn't gone through much of the routine simply because he didn't have to; and he had been rather preoccupied with Dan. If he had the option, Vince would have quite liked to have been able to do his hair today--even if there was considerably less of it than when he'd stormed from his flat that Wednesday evening. 

He can't though. Because Dan sleeps until ridiculously late in the day. 

So late in fact, that Vince is actually pushing his feet into Jones' well-worn trainers as the older man appears in the doorway. 

It had honestly been a stroke of genies on Vince's behalf that he had kept his clothes out here with him rather than leaving them in the bedroom. So he is at least dressed already. 

"There you are!" Vince cries, and Dan winces at the sheer pitch of his excited voice. "Was worried I was gonna have to come in there and wake you up. It's gone Eleven, can't believe you slept late _today."_

"I was up writing," Dan grumbles, defensive and grumpy by the looks of it. It makes Vince giddy to witness, though that might be the lingering effects of caffeine.

He finishes lacing the trainers on his feet and reaches across to where his other personal effects have been abandoned; his phone and his wallet are grabbed and stuffed into the pockets of his jeans no matter how tight they are. Vince is about to rise to his feet and start the verbal tirade of a goodbye he had been thinking about all morning--but he is stuck in his tracks when he looks up to find Dan just... watching him. 

And it's not the same look as his usual wordless staring. The predator watching the prey. This is more like suspicion. It's wariness. How Vince imagines people look at con-men before they're rinsed for everything of worth--you know something's amiss but you don't want to admit you've been taken for a fool. 

"What's wrong with you?" He asks Dan as he stands, and he is a little glad the older man has opted to stay on the opposite side of the room because it at least makes the height difference less obvious. Vince is more confident when he doesn't feel dwarfed. "What you lookin' at me like that for?" 

"Like what?" 

"Like I'm about to lure you into my den and deflower you." Vince teases. 

It deflates the tension enough that Dan can roll his eyes fondly in response. "I think we have established--multiple times I might add--that it would be me luring you if anything." 

With a shrug, Vince acquiesces. "Fair enough." 

In the comfortable air that is left behind, Vince waits. If he knew anything, he knew that with enough gentle encouragement and silence, Dan would eventually say what he means. "You just seem very... happy." He says eventually, and Vince is left frowning in confusion at him. "Glowing," Dan clears his throat. The awkward is palpable. "You're glowing, a bit." 

"'Course I am," Vince explains as if it is the simplest thing in the world. Like nudging a child towards the solution to 2 + 2. "I'm going home today, Dan. Get to sleep in my own bed and dye my hair back to normal and put on _my own clothes..._ I--I get to see Howard again." Vince feels like he's going to vibrate out of his skin and Dan is just blinking at him. "Why wouldn't I be happy about that?" 

“Maybe because of everything we have talked about the past few days.” It is entirely up for debate where Dan means to sound as bitter as he does about it. 

Vince pauses, considers the words, and then asks with a sad smile; “You worried?” 

“No.” 

"You are.” Vince steps up into Dan's space; Dan straightens from where he had been lounging against the wall so that Vince has to cock his head back to look up at him. “It’s okay to be nervous, I’m nervous too.” 

“You don’t _look_ nervous.” 

"Remember what I said last night?" Vince plants his hands on his hips and strikes his best pose; mega-watt grin and all. "I'm made of sunshine." 

Dan is losing a battle with his own smile. "I don't think I'll ever forget some of the crazy shit you've come out with." 

"Then you'll also remember my offer!" Another eye roll from Dan. "If you need some sunshine, you just borrow it. Seriously, it's really helpful. Nothing else matters when you just empty your head of everything else that isn't sun." 

"Sounds pretty unhealthy to me." 

"Yeah well," And Vince won't bother to deny it, he isn't so naive that he doesn't notice his hypocrisy in bottling things up. "You can't lecture anyone on how to deal with your feelings in a healthy way are you?" 

Dan neither confirms nor denies this. He simply sniffs in indignation and turns his gaze somewhere to the left instead. 

“You’ll be fine Dan,” Vince reassures one more time. 

Dan's doubt manifests in his avoidance to reply. Instead, he changes the topic, "When do you leave?" 

"Now, actually." Vince glances over his shoulder towards the front door. "Just wanted to give you some last words of wisdom before I leave you here on your own."

Which, as sad as it sounds, is exactly what Vince is doing. Dan knows exactly where Vince is going, to see Jones. All Dan can do in this process is sit at home like a forgotten puppy until the correct version of Vince's face returns home and starts difficult conversations with him. Can't be that fun for a man like Dan, already so trapped in his own head, to just wait in silence and solitude for something quite substantial to happen. 

And while Dan doesn't look pleased about Vince's imminent departure (Vince has seen the people in Howard's avant-garde rubbish look happier) he doesn't say a word about how he's _actually_ feeling. Vince is left to fill the silence. "We said around lunchtime, so I have to leave now if I don't want to be late. Apparently, Jones wanted the lie in--" 

“Jones doesn’t sleep.” Dan cuts in. Snaps, actually. He seems almost outraged that Vince dares assert anything about Jones that might be incorrect. 

Naturally, Vince goes on the defensive. “Apparently he does _now_ because he asked me to not come home early so he could _sleep_.” 

It’s this information that does it; pushes Dan from one stoic negative mood to a proactive even more negative one. Several things flit over his features one after the other that while Vince can identify, he has no idea what they might mean in the context of an offhanded comment about sleep. Jealousy, fear, bitter humour. _Rejection_. And then Dan is disappearing back into the bedroom. 

Vince waits a whole three minutes, debating if that was his goodbye before Dan reappears with a jacket over his shoulders and shoes on his feet. 

“What are you doing?” Vince asks, and he hates that this reaction is startling laughter from him. Dan is glaring at Vince as he helplessly snickers into his own fist. "You're not coming with me." 

“Why not?” 

Annoyingly, Vince can’t think of a single reason why Dan can't come with him to the flat. Everyone knew about this plot now, Dan had been the last one to know, so surely it wouldn't be that big of a deal to let him retrieve his own other half. It might even be a positive step, demonstrate to Jones how willing the older man was to take positive steps. In some ways, Vince is even giddy with the idea of Dan seeing where he lived--it was a lot like how he'd felt in the early days of his friendships with Howard. 

He just wanted to show off. 

Dan had every right to be as involved now, and Vince was going to let him be. 

“Okay,” Vince says, and he makes a point to deliver a firm point in his direction. “But I’m trying to be on time for once, so can we go?” 

Dan smirks at him, sure they can.

***

Howard makes Jones a coffee, and Jones drinks it eagerly--and then he has two more.

The entire time he is preparing himself with caffeine, Howard watches with vague concern, and Jones does his best to tune him out. They're both dealing with the imminent return of Vince in very different (yet similar) ways. Jones can't stomach a proper breakfast, no matter how he had been slowly conditioning his body into eating regular meals with the older man, today his stomach is too turbulent to reliably keep anything down. 

Howard is managing to pull off a vague imitation of 'put-together' with his buttered toast and the morning paper open in front of him on the counter. But Jones knows better; he can see how Howard nibbles at the edges rather than take proper bites and hasn't turned the page on that newspaper in about thirteen minutes. 

They're existing in silence. Awkward, uncomfortable silence. Which is new, up until now they had found a gentle camaraderie in each other that meant even silence was companionable to an extent. This was... harsh. It was suffocating. Jones could barely breathe under it. 

They don't want to talk in case they miss the sound of someone entering. They don't even want to breathe too loud for fear Vince will slip right by their notice. It's out and out paranoia--a speciality for them both. 

Jones is perched on the sofa like a dog on guard, watching the top of the stairs and plucking anxiously at the St. Christopher around his neck. Howard remains in the kitchen but Jones is not stupid enough to think that is for any other reason than because it gives him the perfect vantage point to the kitchen. Howard may pretend to read but Jones can practically see the physical manifestation of his attention and it's pointing at the stairs even if his eyes aren't.

Vince and himself had agreed on lunchtime, which was an ambiguous time of the day anyway, but then factoring in Vince's penchant for being fashionably late Jones had assumed they'd be waiting until at least 1 pm. This is an incorrect assumption. 

It startles both Jones and Howard to hear the scrape of keys in a lock just are twelve. 

There's no thought involved; Jones springs to his feet and Howard rushes to his side. They stand close enough to press their shoulders together, and despite the fact it is almost certainly Howard seeking out the support and comfort of Jones--he feels like Howard might just be propping him up too. 

He was going to have to go home after this to god knows what kind of conversation with Dan. 

Downstairs, squeaky hinges announce someone's arrival, and closely following that is the muted steps of someone entering a space they're familiar with--not the click of heels but the gentle pad of trainers--and Howard is fit to burst with his joy. Jones can feel him vibrating. Despite the fact Howard is trying his best to smother his grin beneath his moustache; it's stark in the room all the same. 

Jones suddenly can’t wait to see them interact properly; he wants to see how these two souls in particular blend and mesh when they're in the same room. 

Except, the footsteps hit the stairs, the door swings closed and theres… a second pair of footsteps following the first. 

_ Two  _ people just entered the building.

Jones knows what this means immediately. The reality of it swings low into his gut like a punch and he is winded by the realisation. He can't breathe. Howard has clicked on to the extra feet too but he is not so bothered by it, more bemused. Gently curious. To Howard, a second personality is nothing because the first personality is _Vince._ Jones is going to choke on his own fear because he suddenly feels nowhere near ready to face who he _knows_ is climbing the stairs behind Vince. 

Vince’s muffled voice says something, and the ruble of a return voice pitches Howard from ecstatic into also wary.  Howard casts him a look, not even angry, just a little worried. He's a clever man, is Howard, he's put two and two together no problem and more than anything seems worried about Jones' reaction to this development.

“Your Dan?” Howard asks, whispering, and this information doesn’t bother him--why would he has no fucking clue what he's about to be faced with--there's tentative hope for them both glinting in the larger man's joy-squinted eyes. 

_ Fuck  _

_ What had Vince, the utter idiot, been thinking?  _

_ He’s brought Dan.  _

And there’s no time to do anything about it either. If Jones was an altogether more competent person he might have turned to Howard and lied; he could have asked him to leave the room for a second ( _I forgot my phone in the bedroom could you nip and get it)_ because Howard _would_ if Jones played him correctly. He would. All Jones would need was a minute--long enough to berate Vince’s stupidity and order Dan wait outside. Because he hadn’t been sure how Dan would react to this information and he can almost certainly not predict how Howard will take it. 

There was a reason he had avoided bringing it up. 

So, if Jones had been a more competent man he could have done something to protect Howard. To protect all four of them, because the way Jones sees it, none of them win like this. But he's not a competent man. He's stupid. He's an anxious mess under emotional pressure; Jones can win almost any fight you put him in but expect him to juggle emotional responses to stressful situations and he's lost. He does nothing because his brain just goes offline. 

Vince reaches the top of the stairs (he’s been practically skipping by the looks of it) and freezes where he lands. Face to face with the both of them he flushes a little pink; he's shy and unassuming. In Jones' trainers, he looks small but the way he dips his head to peer up through his fringe and twists a hand in his hair makes him seem _tiny._ “Alright?” he asks. 

It would have been sweet. The whole display. Howard already begins to melt for it, the tension leaking from his frame. But barely a second later, Dan's looming posture sidles up behind Vince's small one and the whole room freezes too. 

From there, three things happen. 

Firstly, Jones and Dan meet eyes. There is everything and nothing written in the larger man's face. Hope. Fear. Anger. Jones feels approximately two inches tall and worthless under a gaze like that. He's fairly sure his heart has stopped beating. 

Secondly, Jones sees Howard out of the corner of his eye; he tracks how Howard peers from Vince to Dan and finally turning a look of utter _betrayal_ on Jones. 

Thirdly? Howard leaves. 

The same way he’d left when he’d first seen the true reality of Jones’ identity. He takes one stumble step backwards and then snaps, “Right, then.” 

And then he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> As always I can be found on Tumblr:  
> @queen-boo / @anciientboosh


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